NRLF 


POEMS 


JOHN  L.  STODDARD 


+> 


, 


POEMS 


JOHN    LSTODDARD 


AUTHOR      p 

'THE  STODDARD  LECTURES,"  "RED  LETTER  DAYS  ABROAD, 
"THE  STODDARD  LIBRARY,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


CHICAGO  AND  BOSTON 

GEO.   L.   SHUMAN  &  CO. 
1910 


COPYRIGHT,  1910,  BY 
JOHN  L.  STODDARD 


Press  of  J.  J.  Little  &  Ives  Co.,  New  York 


TS 


55 
P6 

' 


CONJUGI   CARISSIM.E 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

MY  "PROMENADE  SOLITAIRE"  .....       i 

REINCARNATION     ........4 

To  THE  SPHINX 8 

To  THE  "  RING  NEBULA" 10 

THE  WAIP 12 

THE  SILVER  HERONS       .......17 

YOUTH  AND  AGE    .          .         .         .         .         .         .         .21 

To  THE  VENUS  OP  MELOS         ......     25 

SUNSET  AT  INTERLAKEN  .         .         .         .         .         .28 

UNDER  THE  STARS  .         .         .         .         .         .         .31 

CORSICA 34 

MORS  LEONIS          ........     36 

A  STORY  OP  THE  SEA       .......     39 

OLD  HYMN-TUNES  .......     44 

BEFORE  A  STATUE  OP  BUDDHA          .         .         .         .         .46 

THE  PILLARS  OF  HERCULES     ......     50 

FRIENDSHIP 53 

To  MY  DEAD  DOG  .......55 

TO-DAY          .........     56 

To  THE  COUNTESS  GUICCIOLI  .         .         .         .         .58 

THE  BUTTERFLY     ........     60 

AFTER  THE  STORM  .......     64 

FALLEN 66 

"^QUANIMITAS"    ........     70 

THE  DEATH  OF  ANTONINUS  Pius      .         .         .         .         .1 


vi  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

ROME  REVISITED  .......     74 

ON  THE  PALATINE  .......     80 

THE  FAREWELL  AT  FONTAINEBLEAU  .          .          .          .84 

JAPAN, — OLD  AND  NEW  ......     88 

THE  UNFORGOTTEN  HEROES    ......     95 

A  WINTER'S  DAY 98 

ON  THE  PROMENADE       .......   100 

SOLITUDE       .........   102 

OUT  OF  THE  RANKS         .......   104 

AUTONOMY    .........   106 

ORIENT  TO  OCCIDENT,  1906      ......   108 

IN  A  COLUMBARIUM          .          .          .          .          .          .          .   117 

THE  CAPTIVE          .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .121 

WEARINESS  ........   123 

A  MAY  MONODY     ........    125 

MY  LOST  FRIENDS  .          .          .          .          .          .          .127 

To  SLEEP  AND  TO  FORGET       .         .         .         .         .         .129 

IN  SILENCE  ........    130 

AT  HOCHFINSTERMUNZ  ......   133 

DISCOURAGEMENT  ........   136 

MESALLIANCE         ........   143 

MY  BORES     .........    145 

GRATITUDE  ........   148 

Two  MOTHERS       ........   149 

THE  GIFT  OF  JUNO          .         .         .         .         .         .         .   152 

MYSTERIES    .........   155 

TYROLEAN 
OBERMAIS      .........   159 

CONTENTMENT        ........   160 

To  MERAN'S  NORTHERN  MOUNTAINS         .         .         .         .  162 


CONTENTS  vii 

PAGE 

AT  SUNSET    .........   164 

POST  NUBES  Lux  .......   167 

THE  HOME-COMING  FROM  ROME        .....   168 

MY  GARDEN  .          .         .         .         .         „         .         .170 

OSWALD,  THE  MINNESINGER    ......    175 

AFTER  THE  VINTAGE       .......    182 

THE  PASSING  MOON         .          .          .         .         .         .         .184 

THE  MOUNTAINS  OF  MERAN  AT  SUNRISE  .         .         .   187 

AUTUMN  IN  MERAN         .......   189 

THE  STATUE  OF  THE  EMPRESS  ELIZABETH          ...   191 
THE  OUTCASTS       ........   194 

HEIMWEH      .........   197 

MY  LIBRARY  ........   199 

BESIDE   LAKE    COMO 

THE  FAUN 205 

THE  OLD  CARRIER  .......   208 

EVENING  ON  LAKE  COMO          ......  213 

ISOLA  COMACINA      .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .    2l6 

ACQUA  FREDDA      .          .         .         .         .          .         .         .221 

THE  POSTERN  GATE        .         .         .         .         .         .         .224 

JANUARY  IN  THE  TREMEZZINA  .....   229 

THE  WANDERER     .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .231 

A  FRAGMENT  ........   233 

"CoNjuci  CARISSIMAE"  ......  235 

THE  CASCADE         .         .         .         .          .         .         .          .   238 

INFLUENCE  ........   241 

POINT  BALBIANELLO       .......  243 

AT  LENNO     .........   248 

WAKEFULNESS       .         .         .'.         .         ,         .         .251 


viii  CONTENTS 

PERSONALLY   ADDRESSED 

PAGE 

To  HON.  JESSE  HOLDOM  .  .          .  .  255 

LINES  FOR  A  GOLDEN  WEDDING        .....  258 

IN  MEMORIAM.     G.  M.  M.        .          .          .          .          .          .  260 

To  J.  C.  Y.  262 

To  C 263 

To  MR.  AND  MRS.  A.  H.  S 264 

TRANSLATIONS 

THE  Kiss  TO  THE  FLAG  (From  the  French)       .  .  .  269 

AUTUMN  (From  the  German)             .          .          .  .  .275 

SERENADE  TO  NINON  (From  the  French)             .  .  .  277 

THE  RED  TYROLEAN  EAGLE  (From  the  German)  .  ,278 

ANDREAS  HOFER  (From  the  German)        .          .  .  .280 
STREAM  AND  SEA  (From  the  German)        ....  282 

EMILY'S  GRAVE  (From  the  German)          .          .  .  -  283 

RACHEL 
RACHEL  .....-•  287 


MY   "PROMENADE   SOLITAIRE 

Up  and  down  in  my  garden  fair, 

Under  the  trellis  where  grapes  will  bloom, 

With  the  breath  of  violets  in  the  air, 

As  pallid  Winter  for  Spring  makes  room, 

I  walk  and  ponder,  free  from  care, 

In  my  beautiful  Promenade  Solitaire. 


Back  and  forth  in  the  checkered  shade 

Traced  by  the  lattice  that  holds  the  vine, 

With  the  glory  of  snow-capped  crests  displayed 

On  the  sapphire  sky  in  a  billowy  line, 

I  stroll,  and  ask  what  can  compare 

With  the  charm  of  my  Promenade  Solitaire. 


To  and  fro  'neath  the  nascent  green 
Which  clambers  over  its  slender  frame, 
With  white  peaks  lighting  up  the  scene, 
As  snowfields  glow  with  the  sunset  flame, 
I  saunter,  halting  here  and  there 
For  the  view  from  my  Promenade  Solitaire. 


MY    "PROMENADE   SOLITAIRE" 

In  and  out  through  the  silence  sweet, 
While  plash  of  fountain  and  song  of  bird 
Are  the  only  sounds  in  my  lov'd  retreat 
By  which  the  air  is  ever  stirred, 
I  pace,  as  in  long-drawn  aisles  of  prayer, 
So  hushed  is  my  Promenade  Solitaire. 

Onward  rushes  the  world  without, 

But  the  breeze  which  over  my  garden  steals 

Brings  from  it  merely  a  distant  shout 

Or  the  echo  light  of  passing  wheels ; 

In  its  din  and  drive  I  have  now  no  share, 

As  I  muse  in  my  Promenade  Solitaire. 

Am  I  dead  to  the  world,  that  I  thus  disdain 
Its  moil  and  toil  in  the  prime  of  life, 
When  perhaps  a  score  of  years  remain 
To  win  more  gold  in  its  selfish  strife? 
Am  I  foolish  to  choose  the  purer  air 
Of  my  glorious  Promenade  Solitaire? 

Ah  no!     From  my  mountain-girdled  height 
I  watch  the  game  of  the  world  go  on, 
And  note  the  course  of  the  bitter  fight, 
And  what  is  lost  and  what  is  won; 
And  I  judge  of  it  better  here  than  there, 
As  I  gaze  from  my  Promenade  Solitaire. 


MY    "PROMENADE   SOLITAIRE " 

It  is  ever  the  same  old  tale  of  greed, 

Of  robbing  and  killing  the  weaker  race, 

Of  the  world  proved  false  by  the  cruel  deed, 

Of  the  slanderous  tongue  with  the  friendly  face ; 

'Tis  enough  to  make  one's  heart  despair 

Even  here  in  my  Promenade  Solitaire. 

They  cheer,  and  struggle,  and  beat  the  air 
With  many  a  stroke  and  thrust  intense, 
And  urge  each  other  to  do  and  dare, 
To  gain  some  good  they  deem  immense; 
But  they  look  like  ants  contending  there 
From  the  height  of  my  Promenade  Solitaire. 

Backward  and  forward  they  run  and  crawl, 
Houses  and  treasures  they  heap  up  high, 
Hither  and  thither  their  booty  haul,  .  .  . 
Then  suddenly  drop  in  their  tracks  and  die! 
For  few  are  wise  enough  to  repair 
In  time  to  a  Promenade  Solitaire. 


Meantime  the  -Earth  speeds  on  through  space, 

As  the  sun  for  a  million  years  hath  steered, 

And,  an  eon  hence,  the  entire  race 

Will  have  played  its  part  and  disappeared; 

But  what  will  the  lifeless  planet  care, 

As  it  follows  its  Promenade  Solitaire? 


REINCARNATION 

I  know  not  how,  I  know  not  where, 
But  from  my  own  heart's  mystic  lore 
I  feel  that  I  have  breathed  this  air, 
And  walked  this  earth  before; 

And  that  in  this  its  latest  form 
My  old-time  spirit  once  more  strives, 
As  it  has  fought  through  many  a  storm 
In  past,  forgotten  lives. 

Not  inexperienced  did  my  soul 
This  incarnation's  threshold  tread; 
Not  without  record  was  the  scroll 
It  brought  back  from  the  dead. 

What  thrilled  me  in  a  previous  state 
Rekindles  here  its  ancient  flame; 
What  I  by  instinct  love  and  hate 
I  knew  before  I  came; 

And  lands,  of  which  in  youth  I  dreamed 
And  read,  heart-moved,  and  longed  to  see, 


REINCARNATION 

When  really  visited,  have  seemed 
Not  strange  but  known  to  me. 

When  Mozart,  still  a  child,  untaught, 
Ran  joyous  to  the  silent  keys, 
And  with  inspired  fingers  wrought 
Majestic  harmonies, 

There  fell  upon  his  psychic  ear 
Faint  echoes  of  a  music  known 
In  former  lives  continued  here, 
And  one  by  one  outgrown; 

So  to  some  special  lines  of  thought 
My  mind  intuitively  tends, 
And  old  affinities  have  brought 
Not  new,  but  ancient  friends. 

As  from  the  dumb  brute's  wistful  eyes 
A  dawning  human  soul  aspires, 
So  from  each  lower  form  we  rise, — 
Ourselves  our  spirits'  sires. 

Full  many  a  thought  that  thrills  my  breast 
Is  the  late  harvest  from  a  seed 
Sown  elsewhere, — on  my  soul  impressed 
By  many  an  arduous  deed; 


REINCARNATION 

Full  many  a  fetter  which  hath  lamed 
My  struggling  spirit's  upward  flight 
Was  by  that  self-same  spirit  framed, 
When  further  from  the  Light; 

Not  without  justice,  then,  the  pain 
That  o'er  the  tortured  world  extends; 
Not  without  hope  the  lessening  stain, 
As  each  life-cycle  ends. 

No  changeless,  endless  states  await 
The  good  and  evil  souls  set  free; 
Each  grave  is  a  successive  gate 
In  immortality. 

Clear  is  at  last  the  truth  that  slept 
Among  the  darkened  souls  of  men, — 
"  Ye  cannot  see  God's  face,  except 
Ye  shall  be  born  again/' 

The  God-like  Christs  and  Buddhas  yearn, 
However  high  their  spirits'  stage, 
For  man's  salvation  to  return 
As  Saviour  or  as  Sage. 

On  our  benighted,  groping  minds 
Their  noble  precepts,  star-like,  shine; 


REINCARNATION 

Each  soul,  that  wisely  seeks  them,  finds 
The  truths  that  are  divine. 

Misunderstood  and  vilified, 
Their  aims  and  motives  scarcely  known, 
How  many  of  these  Saints  have  died, 
Rejected  by  their  own! 

Yet,  though  their  followers  miss  the  way, 
In  spite  of  precept  and  of  prayer, 
And  lead  unnumbered  souls  astray, 
Committed  to  their  care, 

Still,  on  the  lofty  spirit-plane, 
Where  all  lies  open  to  their  sight, 
The  Masters  know  that  not  in  vain 
They  left  the  Hills  of  Light 


TO  THE   SPHINX 

O  sleepless  Sphinx! 

Thy  sadly  patient  eyes, 
Forever  gazing  o'er  the  shifting  sands, 
Have  watched  Earth's  countless  dynasties  arise, 
Stalk  forth  like  spectres  waving  gory  hands, 
Then  fade  away  with  scarce  a  lasting  trace 
To  mark  the  secret  of  their  dwelling  place : 

O  sleepless  Sphinx! 

O  changeless  Sphinx! 

In  the  fair  dawn  of  Time 
So  grandly  sculptured  from  the  living  rock! 
Still  wears  thy  face  its  primal  look  sublime, 
Surviving  all  the  hoary  ages'  shock : 
Still  art  thou  royal  in  thy  proud  repose, 
As  when  the  sun  on  tuneful  Memnon  rose, 

O  changeless  Sphinx! 

O  voiceless  Sphinx! 

Thy  solemn  lips  are  dumb; 
Time's  awful  secrets  lie  within  thy  breast; 
Age  follows  age ;  revering  pilgrims  come 


TO   THE  SPHINX  c 

From  every  clime  to  urge  the  same  request, — 
That  thou  wilt  speak!     Poor  creatures  of  a  day, 
In  calm  disdain  thou  seest  them  die  away : 
O  voiceless  Sphinx! 

Majestic  Sphinx! 

Thou  crouchest  by  a  sea 

Whose  fawn-hued  wavelets  clasp  thy  buried  feet: 
Whose  desert-surface,  petrified  like  thee, 
Gleams  white  with  sails  of  many  an  Arab  fleet: 
Whose  tawny  billows,  surging  with  the  storm, 
Break  on  thy  flanks,  and  overleap  thy  form; 

Majestic  Sphinx! 

Eternal  Sphinx! 

The  Pyramids  are  thine; 

Their  giant  summits  guard  thee  night  and  day, 
On  thee  they  look  when  stars  in  splendor  shine, 
Or  while  around  their  crests  the  sunbeams  play: 
Thine  own  coevals,  who  with  thee  remain 
Colossal  Genii  of  the  boundless  plain! 

Eternal  Sphinx! 


TO    THE    "RING   NEBULA" 

O  pallid  spectre  of  the  midnight  skies, 
Whose  phantom  features  in  the  dome  of  Night 
Elude  the  keenest  gaze  of  wistful  eyes, 
Till  amplest  lenses  aid  the  failing  sight; 
On  heaven's  blue  sea  the  farthest  isle  of  fire, 
From  thee,  whose  glories  it  would  fain  admire, 
Must  vision,  baffled,  in  despair  retire ! 

What  are  thou,  ghostly  visitant  of  flame? 
Wouldst  thou  'neath  closer  scrutiny  resolve 
In  myriad  suns  that  constellations  frame, 
Round  which  life-freighted  satellites  revolve, 
Like  those  unnumbered  orbs  which  nightly  creep 
In  dim  procession  o'er  the  azure  steep, 
As  white-winged  caravans  the  desert  sweep? 

Or  art  thou  still  an  incandescent  mass, 

Acquiring  form  as  hostile  forces  urge, 

Through  whose  vast  length  a  million  lightnings  pass, 

As  to  and  fro  its  fiery  billows  surge, 


TO   THE    "RING   NEBULA'3  n 

Whose  glowing  atoms,  whirled  in  ceaseless  strife, 
Where  now  chaotic  anarchy  is  rife, 
Shall  yet  become  the  fair  abodes  of  life  ? 

We  know  not;  for  the  faint,  exhausted  rays 
Which  hither  on  Light's  winged  coursers  come, 
From  fires  which  ages  since  first  lit  their  blaze, 
One  instant  gleam,  then  perish,  spent  and  dumb; 
How  strange  the  thought  that,  whatsoe'er  we  learn, 
Our  tiny  globe  no  answer  can  return, 
Since  with  but  dull,  reflected  beams  we  burn! 

Yet  this  we  know; — yon  ring  of  spectral  light, 
Whose  distance  thrills  the  soul  with  solemn  awe, 
Can  ne'er  escape  in  its  majestic  might 
The  firm  control  of  omnipresent  law; 
This  mote  descending  to  its  bounden  place, 
Those  suns  whose  radiance  we  can  scarcely  trace, 
Alike  obey  the  Power  pervading  space. 


THE   WAIF 

I  sit  in  my  luxurious  chair; 
Soft  rugs  caress  my  slippered  feet; 
Within,  a  balmy,  summer  air; 
Without,  a  wintry  storm  of  sleet. 

A  favorite  book  is  in  my  hands, 
A  thousand  others  line  the  walls; 
Some  souvenir  of  distant  lands 
In  every  nook  the  Past  recalls. 

Upon  a  Turkish  tabouret 
In  Dresden  cups  of  peerless  blue 
Gleams  on  a  pretty  Cashmere  tray 
The  fragrant  Mocha's  ebon  hue. 

Two  dainty  hands  prepare  the  draught, 
While  loving  glances  meet  my  own; 
Two  lips  repeat  (the  coffee  quaffed), 
"  To-night  'tis  sweet  to  be  alone." 

Hark!  in  the  court  my  faithful  hound 
Breaks  rudely  on  our  tete-a-tete; 


THE   WAIF  13 

Too  well  I  understand  that  sound! 
A  mendicant  is  at  my  gate. 

Admit  him?     Yes;  for  none  shall  say 
That  he  who  seeks  in  want  my  door 
Is  ever  harshly  turned  away; 
His  plea  is  heard,  if  nothing  more. 

I  leave  my  comforts  with  a  sigh, 
And,  passing  to  the  outer  hall, 
Behold  a  man  doomed  soon  to  die, — 
So  ill,  I  look  to  see  him  fall. 

I  know  his  story  ere  he  speaks; 
And  from  his  cough  and  labored  breath 
I  trace,  with  tears  upon  my  cheeks, 
His  long  and  hopeless  fight  with  death. 

A  poor,  storm-beaten,  lonely  waif, 
Lured  southward  from  a  colder  clime 
By  hope  and  that  unfailing  faith 
That  health  will  come  again  in  time! 

Alas!  too  late;  the  dread  disease 
Hath  fixed  its  roots  too  firmly  there; 
And  now  sick,  friendless,  at  my  knees, 
He  pours  forth  his  heart-breaking  prayer. 


I4  THE   WAIF 

What  are  his  needs  ?    Before  all,  «food ! 
Hot  soup,  bread,  wine,  until  at  last 
A  sense  of  human  brotherhood 
Obliterates  his  cruel  past; 

Yet  not  for  long;  for  though  well-fed, 
With  warmer  garments  than  before, 
He  hath  no  place  to  lay  his  head, 
On  turning  from  my  friendly  door. 

I  slip  some  silver  in  his  hand 
('Twill  purchase  shelter  for  the  night), 
Then  for  a  time,  remorseful,  stand 
And  watch  his  bent  form  out  of  sight; 

Out  through  the  snow  and  chilling  sleet, 
Out  from  my  home  of  warmth  and  cheer, 
Forth  from  my  comforts  to  the  street! 
Ah !  should  I  not  have  kept  him  here  ? 

My  room  is  no  less  bright  and  warm, 
But  all  its  charm  and  joy  have  fled ; 
That  lonely  figure  in  the  storm 
Leaves  both  our  hearts  uncomforted. 

For  this  is  but  one  tiny  wave 

In  life's  vast,  shoreless  sea  of  woe, — 


fHE   WAIF  15 

One  note  in  man's  hoarse  cry  to  save, 
Resounding  o'er  its  ebb  and  flow; 


To-day  the  cry  is  from  a  boy, 

Whose  wistful  eyes  look  out  through  pain 

Upon  a  world  of  blithesome  joy 

That  he  can  never  know  again; 

To-morrow  come  yet  sadder  scenes, — 
A  woman  crowned  with  snow-white  hair, 
Who  helpless  lies,  with  slender  means, 
And  none  to  comfort  or  to  care. 

I  ask  myself  in  blank  dismay, — 
Ought  I  my  little  wealth  to  own? 
Yet,  should  I  give  it  all  away, 
'Twere  but  a  drop  to  ocean  thrown! 

Great  God!  if  what  I  dimly  see, 
In  this  small  section  of  mankind, 
Of  pain  and  want  and  misery, 
Can  thus  bring  anguish  to  my  mind, 

How  canst  Thou  view  the  awful  whole, 
As  our  ensanguined  planet  rolls 
From  unknown  source  to  unknown  goal 
Its  freight  of  suffering  human  souls? 


16  THE   WAIF 

Problem  of  Pain!  the  first  and  last 
Of  riddles  that  we  strive  to  solve, 
Ever  more  poignant  and  more  vast, 
As  man's  mentalities  evolve, 

I  hear  thy  victims'  ceaseless  wails, 
I  view  the  path  my  race  hath  trod, 
And  at  the  sight  my  spirit  quails, 
And  cries  in  agony  to  God ! 


THE    SILVER    HERONS 

Within  a  home  for  captive  beasts 
Whose  world  had  dwindled  to  a  cage, 
I  noted  in  their  mournful  eyes 
Such  resignation,  fear,  and  rage, 
I  longed  at  once  to  set  them  free, 
And  send  them  over  land  and  sea 
Back  to  a  life  of  liberty. 

For  them  no  more  the  mountain  range, 

The  desert  vast,  the  jungle's  lair ! 

Their  meaner  fate  through  grated  bars 

To  feel  the  public's  hateful  stare ; 

Poor  prisoners!  doomed  henceforth  to  pace 

With  stinted  strides  a  narrow  space, 

And,  daily,  gaping  crowds  to  face. 

At  length  I  stood  before  a  cage, 
Where,  guarded  by  a  loftier  screen, 
Were  artificial  rocks,  and  pools, 
And  strips  of  vegetation  green; 
There,  perched  upon  some  rocky  mound, 
Or  crouching  on  the  miry  ground, 
A  flock  of  waterfowl  I  found. 


i8  THE   SILVER   HERONS 

Storks,  poised  upon  a  single  leg, 
Stood  dreaming  of  the  eternal  Nile, — 
iThe  Mecca  of  their  winter  flight, 
[When  lured  by  Egypt's  sunny  smile; 
While  ducks  and  geese,  in  gabbling  mood, 
Explored  the  muddy  pond  for  food, 
Attended  by  their  noisy  brood. 

Their  keeper  brought  their  evening  meal ; 
And  instantly  on  broad-webbed  feet, 
And  stilt-like  legs,  and  flapping  wings, 
The  feathered  bipeds  rushed  to  greet, 
With  snaps  and  duckings  of  delight, 
The  joyful,  ever-welcome  sight 
Of  supper  at  the  approach  of  night. 

Yet  all  came  not !    Two  stood  apart, 
With  plumage  like  fresh-fallen  snow, — 
Two  "  Silver  Herons,"  of  a  race 
As  pure  and  fine  as  earth  can  show ; 
These,  'mid  the  tumult  that  was  rife, 
Despised  the  others'  greedy  strife, 
And  looked  disgusted  with  their  life. 

With  closed  eyes,  shrinking  from  the  mass, 
They  seemed,  in  thought,  removed  as  far 
From  all  their  coarse  environment 
As  sun  is  separate  from  star ! 


THE   SILVER   HERONS  19 

The  very  picture  of  disdain, 

From  all  such  gorging,  it  was  plain, 

They  had  determined  to  refrain. 


The  keeper  murmured  with  reproach, — 
"  Those  Silver  Herons  are  too  proud ! 
Why  should  they  not  devour  their  food 
Together  with  the  common  crowd  ? 
They  eat  a  little  from  my  hand, 
But  would  prefer  to  starve,  than  stand 
Besmeared  by  that  uncleanly  band. 

"  A  month  hence,  neither  will  be  here ; 
For  both  will  grieve  themselves  to  death; 
And  when  one  falls,  its  mate  expires 
With  scarcely  an  additional  breath; 
And,  should  there  come  another  pair, 
They  in  their  turn  the  fate  will  share 
Of  the  two  herons  standing  there." 

Poor  hapless  birds!    I  see  them  yet, 
Alone  and  starving  in  their  pride, — 
Their  glittering  plumage  still  intact, 
While  standing  bravely  side  by  side ; 
And,  although  put  to  hunger's  test, 
Continuing  mutely  to  protest 
Against  defilement  with  the  rest. 


20  THE   SILVER    HERONS 

O  Silver  Herons,  teach  mankind 
To  cherish  thus  a  stainless  name ! 
To  shun  the  vile,  ignoble  crowd, 
Preferring  death  to  smirch  and  shame! 
A  foul,  unfriendly  mob  to  brave, 
And  go,  unspotted,  to  the  grave, 
Is  not  to  lose  one's  life,  but  save. 


YOUTH  AND  AGE 

"  I  will  gain  a  fortune,"  the  young  man  cried; 

"  For  Gold  by  the  world  is  deified ; 

Hence,  whether  the  means  be  foul  or  fair, 

I  will  make  myself  a  millionaire, 

My  single  talent  shall  grow  to  ten !  " 

But  an  old  man  smiled,  and  asked  "  And  then? 

"  A  peerless  beauty,"  the  young  man  said, 
"  Shall  be  the  woman  I  choose  to  wed. 
And  men  shall  envy  me  my  prize, 
And  women  scan  her  with  jealous  eyes ;  " 
And  he  looked  annoyed,  when  once  again 
The  old  man  smiled,  and  asked  "  And  then  ?  " 

"  I  will  build,"  he  answered,  "  a  home  so  fine, 
That  kings  in  their  castles  shall  covet  mine; 
The  rarest  pictures  shall  clothe  its  walls, 
And  statues  stand  in  its  stately  halls ; 
It  shall  lack  no  luxury  known  to  men ;  " 
But  still  the  old  man  asked  "  And  then?  " 

"  I  will  play  a  role  in  Church  or  State 
That  all  mankind  shall  acknowledge  great; 


22  YOUTH   AND    AGE 

I  will  win  at  last  such  brilliant  fame, 
That  distant  lands  shall  know  my  name, 
For  I  can  wield  both  sword  and  pen ;  " 
But  again  the  old  man  asked  "  And  then?  " 

"  Is  your  heart  a  stone,"  the  young  man  cried, 

"  Hath  all  ambition  within  you  died, 

That  nothing  seems  to  you  worth  while, 

And  you  answer  me  with  that  sphinx-like  smile? 

Of  what  are  you  secretly  thinking,  when 

You  utter  those  mournful  words, — '  And  then  ?  ' 

Gently  the  old  man  said  "  O  youth, 

The  words  I  have  spoken  veil  a  truth 

That  is  only  learned  through  the  lapse  of  years, 

And  is  first  discerned  through  a  mist  of  tears ; 

For  youth  is  full  of  illusions  fair 

,Which  manhood  sees  dissolve  in  air. 

"  Your  millions  will  not  make  you  blest, 
They  will  rob  you,  instead,  of  peace  and  rest : 
Your  beautiful  wife  may  be  the  prey 
Of  a  treacherous  friend  or  a  skilled  roue ; 
And  the  splendid  palace  that  you  crave 
Will  make  you  Society's  gilded  slave. 

"  'Tis  a  weary  road  to  political  fame ; 
Its  price  you  must  often  pay  in  shame ; 


YOUTH    AND   AGE  23 

And  the  world-known  name  for  which  you  yearn 
On  a  bulletin  board  or  a  funeral  urn, 
Is  scarcely  worth  the  toil  and  strife 
Which  poison  the  peaceful  joys  of  life. 

"  For  be  you  ever  so  wise  and  good, 
By  some  you  will  be  misunderstood, 
And  fame  will  bring  you  envious  foes 
To  spoil  for  you  many  a  night's  repose ; 
And  alas !  as  your  pathway  upward  tends, 
You  will  find  self-interest  in  your  friends ! 

"  The  loudest  shout  of  the  mob's  applause 
Will  die  out  after  a  moment's  pause; 
And  what  is  the  greatest  public  praise 
To  one  whose  form  in  the  earth  decays  ? 
For  the  cruel  world  will  always  laugh 
At  the  fulsome  lie  of  an  epitaph. 

"  But  Spring  recks  not  of  Winter's  snow, 
And  you  will  not  believe,  I  know, 
That  all  those  boons  that  tempt  your  powers, 
If  gained,  will  be  like  fragile  flowers, 
Whose  freshness  wilts  in  the  fevered  hand, 
Like  a  wild  rose  dropped  on  the  desert  sand. 

"  And  much  of  the  work  you  deem  sublime 
Is  like  the  grain  of  pink-hued  lime 


24  YOUTH    AND    AGE 

Which  once  was  a  coral  insect's  shell, 
But  now  is  a  microscopic,  cell, 
Entombed  with  countless  billions  more 
In  a  lonely  reef  on  an  unknown  shore !  " 

"  Alas !  "  said  the  youth, — and  his  eyes  were  wet,- 

"  Is  old  age  merely  a  vain  regret, 

The  retrospect  of  wasted  years, 

Of  false  ideals  and  lost  careers? 

Advise  me!    What  must  I  reject, 

And  what  for  my  permanent  good  select?  " 

"  Beloved  youth,"  the  old  man  said, 
"  All  is  not  vain,  be  comforted ! 
Seek  not  thine  own,  but  others'  joy; 
Ring  true,  like  gold  without  alloy; 
Waste  not  thy  time  in  asking  Why, 
Or  Whence,  or  Whither  when  we  die; 

"  The  actual  world,  the  present  hours 

Will  give  enough  to  tax  thy  powers; 

At  no  clear  duty  hesitate ; 

Serve  well  thy  neighbor  and  the  State; 

So  shalt  thou  add  thy  tiny  form 

To  bind  the  reef  that  breasts  the  storm ! " 


TO  THE  VENUS   OF  MELOS 

O  goddess  of  that  Grecian  isle 

Whose  shores  the  blue  ^Egean  laves, 

Whose  cliffs  repeat  with  answering  smile 
Their  features  in  its  sun-kissed  waves! 

An  exile  from  thy  native  place, 

We  view  thee  in  a  northern  clime; 

Yet  mark  on  thy  majestic  face 

A  glory  still  undimmed  by  Time. 

Through  those  calm  lips,  proud  goddess,  speak! 

Portray  to  us  thy  gorgeous  fane, 
Where  Melian  lovers  thronged  to  seek 

Thine  aid,  Love's  paradise  to  gain; 

And  where,  as  in  the  saffron  east, 

Day's  jewelled  gates  were  open  flung, 

With  stately  pomp  the  attendant  priest 

Drew  back  the  veil  before  thee  hung; 

And  when  the  daring  kiss  of  morn, 

Empurpling,  made  thy  charms  more  fair, 


26  TO   THE   VENUS   OF   MELOS 

Sweet  strains  from  unseen  minstrels  borne 
Awoke  from  dreams  the  perfumed  air. 

Vouchsafe  at  last  our  minds  to  free 

From  doubts  pertaining  to  thy  charms,- 

The  meaning  of  thy  bended  knee, 

The  secret  of  thy  vanished  arms. 

Wast  thou  in  truth  conjoined  with  Mars? 

Did  thy  fair  hands  his  shield  embrace, 
The  surface  of  whose  golden  bars 

Grew  lovely  from  thy  mirrored  face? 

Or  was  it  some  bright  scroll  of  fame 

Thus  poised  on  thine  extended  knee, 

Upon  which  thou  didst  trace  the  name 
Of  that  fierce  god  so  dear  to  thee? 

Whatever  thou  hadst,  no  mere  delight 

Was  thine  the  glittering  prize  to  hold; 

Not  thine  the  form  that  met  thy  sight, 
Replying  from  the  burnished  gold; 

Unmindful  what  thy  hands  retained, 
Thy  gaze  is  fixed  beyond,  above ; 

Some  dearer  object  held  enchained 
The  goddess  of  immortal  love. 


TO   THE   VENUS   OF   MELOS  27 

We  mark  the  motion  of  thine  eyes, 

And  smile ;  for,  heldst  thou  shield  or  scroll, 
A  tender  love-glance  we  surprise, 

That  tells  the  secret  of  thy  soul. 


SUNSET   AT  INTERLAKEN 

The  sun  is  low ; 

Yon  peak  of  snow 
Is  reddening  'neath  the  sunset  glow; 

The  rosy  light 

Makes  richly  bright 
The  Jungfrau's  veil  of  snowy  white. 

From  vales  that  sleep 

Night's  shadows  creep 
To  take  possession  of  the  steep ; 

While,  as  they  rise, 

The  western  skies 
Seem  loath  to  leave  so  fair  a  prize. 

The  light  of  day 

Still  loves  to  stay 
And  round  that  pearly  summit  play; 

How  fair  a  sight 

That  realm  of  light, 
Contended  for  by  Day  and  Night! 


SUNSET   AT   INTERLAKEN  29 

Now  fainter  shines, 

As  Day  declines, 
The  lustrous  height  which  he  resigns; 

The  shadows  gain 

Th'  illumined  plane; 
The  Jungfrau  pales,  as  if  in  pain. 

When  daylight  dies, 

The  azure  skies 
Seem  sparkling  with  a  thousand  eyes, 

Which  watch  with  grace 

From  depths  of  space 
The  sleeping  Jungfrau's  lovely  face. 

And  when  the  Light 

Hath  put  to  flight 
Night's  shadows  from  each  Alpine  height, 

Along  the  skies 

It  quickly  flies, 
To  kiss  the  Maiden's  opening  eyes. 

The  timid  flush 

And  rosy  blush 
Which  then  from  brow  to  bosom  rush, 

Are  pure  and  fair 

Beyond  compare, 
Resplendent  in  the  crystal  air. 


30  SUNSET   AT   INTERLAKEN 

And  thus  alway 

By  night  and  day 
Her  varying  suitors  homage  pay; 

And  tinged  with  rose, 

Or  white  with  snows, 
The  same  fair,  radiant  form  she  shows. 


UNDER   THE    STARS 

The  breath  of  summer  stirs  the  trees, 
A  thousand  roses  round  me  bloom, 
Whose  saffron  petals  give  the  breeze 
A  wealth  of  exquisite  perfume, 
As,  climbing  high,  with  tendrils  bold, 
They  clothe  the  walls  with  cups  of  gold. 

No  sound  disturbs  the  silence  sweet, 
The  weary  birds  have  sunk  to  rest; 
For  where  the  snow  and  sunset  meet 
The  light  is  fading  in  the  west, 
And  with  the  dusk  the  cares  of  day 
Slip  from  my  burdened  heart  away. 

The  emptiness  of  social  strife, 

The  pettiness  of  human  souls, 

The  cheap  frivolities  of  life, 

The  keen  pursuit  of  common  goals, — 

How  small  they  seem  beneath  the  dome 

That  shelters  my  Tyrolean  home! 


32  UNDER   THE   STARS 

A  shining  mote,  our  tiny  earth 

No  furrow  leaves  in  shoreless  space! 

What  is  one  brief  existence  worth 

In  the  long  annals  of  the  race? 

That  silent,  star-strewn  vault  survives 

The  dawns  and  dusks  of  countless  lives. 


Why  grieve,  dear  heart?     Oblivion  deep 
Will  soon  enshroud  both  friend  and  foe, 
And  those  who  laugh  and  those  who  weep 
Must  join  the  hosts  of  long  ago, 
Whose  transient  hours  of  smiles  and  tears 
Make  up  earth's  wilderness  of  years. 

The  sunset's  glowing  embers  die, 
The  snow-peaks  lose  their  crimson  hue, 
Through  deepening  shades  the  ruddy  sky 
Burns  slowly  down  to  darkest  blue, 
Wherein  a  million  worlds  of  light 
Announce  the  coming  of  the  night. 

I  gaze,  and  slowly  my  despair 

At  human  wretchedness  and  crime 

Gives  place  to  hopes  and  visions  fair, — 

So  much  may  be  evolved  by  time ! 

So  much  may  yet  men's  souls  surprise 

Beneath  the  splendor  of  God's  skies! 


UNDER   THE   STARS  33 

Some  day,  somewhere,  in  realms  afar 
His  light  may  make  all  problems  plain, 
And  justice  on  some  happier  star 
May  recompense  this  planet's  pain, 
And  earth's  bleak  Golgothas  of  woe 
Grow  lovely  in  life's  afterglow. 


CORSICA 

In  Bordighera's  groves  of  palm 
I  linger  at  the  close  of  day, 
And  watch,  beyond  the  ocean's  calm, 
A  range  of  mountains  far  away. 

Their  snowy  summits,  white  and  cold, 
Flush  crimson  like  a  tinted  shell, 
As  sinks  the  sun  in  clouds  of  gold 
Behind  the  peaks  of  Esterel. 

No  unsubstantial  shapes  are  they, — 
The  offspring  of  the  mist  and  sea; 
No  splendid  vision  of  Cathay, 
Recalled  in  dreamful  revery ; 

Their  solid  bastions, — towering  high 
Though  rooted  in  earth's  primal  plan, — 
Proclaim  to  every  passer  by 
The  cradle  of  the  Corsican. 

What  martial  soul  there  found  rebirth, 
When  on  those  cliffs  then  scarcely  known 


CORSICA  35 

There  once  more  visited  the  earth 
The  spirit  called  Napoleon? 

Three  islands,  like  the  sister  Fates, 
His  life-thread  wove  upon  their  loom 
From  fair  Ajaccio's  silvered  gates 
To  Saint  Helena's  mournful  tomb; — 

The  first,  his  birthplace ;  whence  appeared 
His  baleful  star  with  lurid  glow; 
Next,  Elba,  where  the  world  still  feared 
The  fugitive  from  Fontainebleau ; 

Last,  England's  lonely  prison-block, 
Grim  fragment  'neath  a  tropic  sky, 
Where,  like  Prometheus  on  his  rock, 
The  captive  Caesar  came  to  die. 

O  Corsica,  sublimely  wild 
And  riven  by  the  winds  and  waves, 
Thy  fame  is  deathless  from  thy  child, 
Whose  glory  filled  a  million  graves. 


MORS   LEONIS 

When  o'er  the  aged  lion  steals 
The  instinct  of  approaching  death, 
Whose  numbing  grasp  he  vaguely  feels 
In  trembling  limbs  and  labored  breath, 
He  shuns  the  garish  light  of  day, 
Leaves  his  lov'd  mate  and  whelps  at  play, 
And  sorrowfully  creeps  away. 

From  bush  to  bush,  by  devious  trails, 
He  drags  himself  from  hill  to  hill, 
And,  as  his  old  strength  slowly  fails, 
Drinks  long  at  many  a  mountain  rill, 
Until  he  gains,  with  stifled  moan, 
A  height,  to  hated  man  unknown, 
Where  he  may  die,  at  least  alone. 

Relaxing  now  his  mighty  claws, 
He  lies,  half  shrouded  by  his  mane, 
His  grand  head  resting  on  his  paws, 
And  heeding  little  save  his  pain, 
As  o'er  his  eyes,  so  sad  and  deep, 
The  film  of  death  begins  to  creep, — 
The  prelude  to  eternal  sleep. 


MORS   LEONIS  37 

As  Caesar,  reeling  'neath  the  stroke 
And  dagger-thrust  of  many  a  friend, 
Drew  o'er  his  face  his  Roman  cloak, 
To  meet,  unseen,  his  tragic  end, 
So  hath  this  desert-monarch  tried 
With  noble  dignity  to  hide 
From  others  how  and  where  he  died. 

And  now  his  spirit  is  serene ; 
For  here  no  stranger  can  intrude 
To  view  this  last,  pathetic  scene, 
Or  mar  its  sombre  solitude ; 
Prone  on  the  lonely  mountain  crest, 
Confronting  the  resplendent  west, 
The  dying  lion  sinks  to  rest. 

Proud  king  of  beasts !  thy  death  should  teach 

Mankind  the  cheapness  of  display; 

More  eloquent  than  human  speech, 

Thy  grand  example  shows  the  way 

To  pass  from  life,  unheard,  unseen, 

And  with  composed,  majestic  mien 

Death's  awful  sacredness  to  screen. 

Nay,  more!  thou  didst  select  a  place 
Where,  unobserved,  thy  form  can  rest, 
Till  Mother  Earth  with  fond  embrace 
Shall  hide  it  in  her  ample  breast ; 


38  MORS   LEONIS 

Like  Moses  in  lone  Nebo's  land, 
Thou  shalt  be  sepulchred  in  sand, 
Unseen  by  eye,  untouched  by  hand. 

No  pompous  tomb  shall  ever  rise 
Above  thy  lonely,  sun-bleached  frame; 
No  epitaph  of  well-turned  lies 
Shall  be  inscribed  beneath  thy  name ; 
No  bells  for  thee  a  dirge  shall  ring, 
No  choir  beside  thy  grave  shall  sing, 
Yet  hast  thou  perished  like  a  king ! 


A    STORY   OF   THE    SEA 

Were  you  ever  told  the  legend  old 

Of  the  birth  of  storms  at  sea? 

You  should  hear  the  tale  in  a  Channel  gale, 

As  happened  once  to  me, 

On  a  fearful  night  off  Fastnet  Light, 

With  Ireland  on  our  lee. 


In  the  good  old  days,  which  poets  praise 

As  the  best  that  man  hath  seen, 

The  storm-king's  hand  might  smite  the  land, 

But  the  sea  remained  serene ; 

Blow  east,  blow  west,  its  sun-kissed  breast 

Kept  ever  its  tranquil  sheen. 

Not  a  single  trace  came  o'er  its  face 

Of  the  storms  that  raged  elsewhere ; 

No  misty  screen  e'er  crept  between 

The  sun  and  its  image  there ; 

And  its  depths  at  night  were  gemmed  with  light 

By  stars  in  the  crystal  air. 


40  A   STORY   OF   THE   SEA 

The  fisherman  laughed  in  his  little  craft, 

If  a  landsman  felt  alarm, 

For  never  did  gale  a  ship  assail, 

Or  a  sailor  suffer  harm ; 

There  was  nothing  to  fear,  for  the  skies  were  clear, 

And  the  ocean  always  calm. 

But  on  the  shore,  where  more  and  more 

The  human  race  increased, 

There  were  cold  and  heat,  and  snow  and  sleet, 

And  troubles  never  ceased ; 

For  wind  and  rain  beat  down  the  grain, 

And  the  plague  slew  man  and  beast. 

And  even  worse  was  the  moral  curse, 

That  came  like  a  deadly  blight 

Through  men  who  seized  whate'er  they  pleased, 

On  the  ground  that  might  makes  right, 

Till  the  fatal  seed  of  selfish  greed 

Made  life  a  bitter  fight. 

Hence  many  sighed,  as  they  watched  the  tide 

Glide  out  to  the  sunset  sea, 

And  longed  to  go  with  its  gentle  flow 

To  where  they  hoped  might  be 

A  realm  of  peace,  where  sorrows  cease, 

And  souls  from  pain  are  free. 


A   STORY   OF   THE   SEA  41 

At  last  they  said, — "  We  were  better  dead, 
Than  endure  this  anguish  more ; 
Let  us  seek  relief  from  care  and  grief 
Far  out  from  the  storm-swept  shore; 
The  sea  can  bring  no  sadder  thing 
Than  the  life  we  lived  before." 


So  a  ship  was  framed,  which  they  fondly  named 

"  The  Peace  of  the  Human  Mind," 

And  the  weary  band  soon  left  the  land 

And  its  ceaseless  strife  behind; 

But  unattained  the  goal  remained 

They  had  so  longed  to  find. 

For  the  souls  that  came  were  quite  the  same 
As  they  were  before  they  sailed; 
And,  as  pride  and  hate  did  not  abate, 
The  hope  of  the  voyagers  failed ; 
And,  facing  alone  the  great  Unknown, 
The  bravest  spirits  quailed. 

Meanwhile  the  ship  began  to  dip, 

And  labored  to  and  fro, 

For  the  sea,  though  fair,  could  no  more  bear 

This  load  of  human  woe ; 

And  at  last  the  boat,  with  all  afloat, 

Sank  helplessly  below. 


42  A  STORY   OF   THE   SEA 

Down,  down  it  swirled  to  the  nether  world; 

While  up  from  the  riven  main 

Came  the  gurgling  sound  of  those  who  drowned, 

As  the  vortex  closed  again; 

The  sea  surged  back  to  its  wonted  track; 

Once  more  'twas  a  sun-lit  plain ! 

But  soon  men  saw,  with  deepening  awe, 

That  sea  grow  white  with  spray; 

Its  brilliant  hue  was  changed  from  blue 

To  a  deathlike,  leaden  gray; 

And  a  sullen  roar  approached  the  shore 

Whence  the  ship  had  sailed  away. 

Huge  waves  rolled  in  with  frightful  din, 

And  spat  out  hissing  foam, 

And  smote  the  sand  along  the  strand, 

And  swept  off  many  a  home ; 

And  lightnings  flashed  and  thunder  crashed 

From  heaven's  ink-black  dome. 


"  Alas !  "  they  cried,  "  that  our  brothers  died 

In  the  depths  of  the  sea  of  peace ; 

They  have  brought  unrest  to  its  quiet  breast, 

Which  nevermore  shall  cease ; 

For  the  peace  it  lost  we  must  pay  the  cost; 

And  behold !  our  woes  increase !  " 


A   STORY   OF  THE   SEA  43 

In  truth,  since  then  how  many  men 
Have  learned  that  the  mighty  deep 
Can  heave  and  swell  to  a  seething  hell, 
When  storms  its  surface  sweep ! 
For  its  calm  hath  fled,  and  countless  dead 
Are  the  spoils  it  loves  to  heap. 

But  at  its  best,  when  it  lies  at  rest 

On  a  cloudless  summer  day, 

And,  tiger-like,  forbears  to  strike, 

But,  sated,  basks  at  play, 

One  seems  to  hear,  with  the  psychic  ear, 

Its  murmuring  wavelets  say, — 

"  No  real  relief  from  care  and  grief 

Is  found  o'er  distant  waves; 

The  men  who  sail  to  find  it,  fail, 

And  sink  to  lonely  graves; 

In  the  firm  control  of  man's  own  soul 

Is  alone  the  peace  he  craves." 


OLD    HYMN-TUNES 

Dear,  old-time  tunes  of  prayer  and  praise, 
Heard  first  beside  my  mother's  knee, 
Your  music  on  my  spirit  lays 
A  spell  from  which  I  should  be  free, 
If  lapse  of  time  gave  liberty. 

I  listen,  and  the  crowded  years 
Fade,  dream-like,  from  my  life,  and  lo! 
I  find  my  eyelids  wet  with  tears, — 
So  much  I  loved,  so  well  I  know 
Those  plaintive  airs  of  long  ago! 

They  tell  me  of  my  vanished  youth, 
Of  faith  in  what  so  flawless  seemed, 
Before  the  painful  quest  of  truth 
Had  proved  how  much  I  then  esteemed 
Was  other  than  I  fondly  dreamed ! 

They  make  my  childhood  live  again; 

And  life's  fair  dawn  grows  once  more  bright, 

While  listening  to  the  sweet  refrain, 

Sung  in  the  Sabbath's  waning  light, — 

"  Glory  to  Thee,  my  God,  this  night ! " 


OLD    HYMN-TUNES  45 

My  mother's  voice,  so  pure  and  strong, 

My  father's  flute  of  silvery  tone, 

The  little  household's  strength  of  song, 

The  childish  treble  of  my  own,— 

I  hear  them  once  more,  but  .  .  .  alone! 

Sweet  obligato  to  some  hymn 

Whose  words  those  vanished  tones  recall, 

Float  o'er  me,  when  earth's  scenes  grow  dim, 

And  life's  last,  lingering  echoes  fall, 

Till  silence  settles  over  all ! 


BEFORE   A    STATUE    OF   BUDDHA 

O  Buddha,  of  the  mystic  smile 
And  downcast,  dreamful  eyes, 
To  whom  unnumbered  sacred  shrines 
And  gilded  statues  rise, 

Whose  fanes  are  filled  with  worshippers, 
Whose  hallowed  name  is  sung 
By  myriads  of  the  human  race 
In  every  Eastern  tongue, 

What  means  thy  sweet  serenity? 
Our  planet,  as  it  rolls, 
Sweeps  through  the  starry  universe 
A  mass  of  burdened  souls, 

Still  agonized  and  pitiful, 
Despite  the  countless  years 
That  man  has  spent  in  wandering 
Through  paths  of  blood  and  tears ! 

O  Lord  of  love  and  sympathy 
For  all  created  life, 


BEFORE   A   STATUE    OF    BUDDHA       47 

How  canst  thou  view  thus  placidly 
The  world's  incessant  strife, 


The  misery  and  massacre 
Of  war's  destructive  train, 
The  martyrdom  of  animals, 
The  tragedy  of  pain, 

The  infamous  brutalities 
To  helpless  children  shown, 
The  pathos  of  whose  joyless  lives 
Might  melt  a  heart  of  stone  ? 

Preeminently  merciful, 
Does  not  thy  spirit  long 
To  guard  from  inhumanity 
The  weak  against  the  strong? 

Thou  bad'st  mankind  deal  tenderly 
With  every  breathing  thing, — 
The  horse  that  drags  the  heavy  load, 
The  bird  upon  the  wing, 

The  flocks  along  the  riverside, 
The  cattle  on  the  lea, 
And  every  living  denizen 
Of  earth  and  air  and  sea; 


48        BEFORE   A   STATUE    OF   BUDDHA 

Yet  daily  in  the  shambles 
A  sea  of  blood  is  spilled, 
And  man  is  nourished  chiefly 
From  beasts  that  he  has  killed ! 

And  hunters  still  find  happiness 
In  seeing,  red  with  wounds, 
A  sobbing  deer,  with  liquid  eyes, 
Dragged  down  by  yelping  hounds! 

What  is  the  real  significance 
Of  thine  unchanging  smile? 
Is  it  the  secret  consciousness 
That  grief  is  not  worth  while, 

That  sorrow  is  the  consequence 
Of  former  lives  of  sin, — 
The  spur  that  goads  us  on  and  up 
A  nobler  life  to  win  ? 

That  pain  is  as  impermanent 
As  shadows  on  the  hills, 
And  that  Nirvana's  blessedness 
Will  cure  all  mortal  ills? 

But  agony  is  agony, 
And  small  is  the  relief 
If,  measured  with  eternity, 
Life's  anguish  be  but  brief. 


BEFORE   A   STATUE    OF   BUDDHA       49 

This  world  at  least  is  sorrowful, 
And  to  a  tortured  frame 
The  present  pang  is  actual, 
Nirvana  but  a  name ; 

Moreover,  why  should  former  lives 
Bequeath  their  weight  of  woe, 
If  with  it  comes  no  memory 
To  guide  us,  as  we  go? 

If  o'er  the  dark,  prenatal  void 
No  mental  bridge  be  cast, 
No  thread,  however  frail,  to  link 
The  present  to  the  past? 

Still  silent  and  dispassionate ! 
Ah,  would  that  I  might  find 
The  key  to  the  serenity 
That  fills  thy  lofty  mind ! 

Thou  hast  a  joy  we  do  not  feel, 
A  light  we  cannot  see ; 
Injustice,  sin,  and  wretchedness 
No  longer  harass  thee ; 

No  doubt  to  thy  sublimer  gaze 
Life's  mystery  grows  plain, 
As  finally  full  recompense 
Atones  for  earthly  pain. 


THE  PILLARS  OF  HERCULES 

Here  ends  at  last  the  Inland  Sea ! 

Still  seems  its  outlet,  as  of  yore, 

The  anteroom  of  Mystery, 

As,  through  its  westward-facing  door, 

I  see  the  vast  Atlantic  lie 

In  splendor  'neath  a  sunset  sky. 


Up  from  its  distant,  glittering  rim 
Streams  o'er  the  waves  a  flood  of  gold, 
To  gild  the  mountains,  bare  and  grim, 
Which  guard  this  exit,  as  of  old, — 
The  sombre  sentries  of  two  seas, 
The  Pillars  reared  by  Hercules; — 


Gibraltar, — on  the  northern  shore, 
By  conquering  Moors  once  proudly  trod, — 
And,  to  the  south  a  league  or  more, 
Huge  Abyla,  the  "  Mount  of  God  ", 
Whence  burdened  Atlas  watched  with  ease 
The  Gardens  of  Hesperides. 


THE   PILLARS   OF   HERCULES  51 

How  many  slow-paced  centuries  passed, 
Ere  the  first  sailors  dared  to  creep 
Beyond  the  gloom  these  monsters  cast, 
And  venture  on  the  unknown  deep, 
At  last  resolving  to  defy 
The  "  God-established  "  termini ! 


Yet  no  fierce  gods  opposed  their  path ; 
No  lurid  bolt  or  arrow  sped 
To  crush  them  with  celestial  wrath, 
And  number  them  among  the  dead; 
The  dreadful  Pillars  proved  as  tame 
As  other  rocks  of  lesser  fame. 

Hence,  when  before  them  stretched  the  sea, 
Majestic,  limitless  and  clear, 
A  rapturous  sense  of  being  free 
Dispelled  all  vestiges  of  fear 
The  longed-for  ocean  to  explore 
From  pole  to  pole,  from  shore  to  shore. 

Thus  all  men  learn  the  God  they  dread 
Is  kinder  than  they  had  supposed, 
And  that,  not  God,  but  Man  hath  said, — 
"  The  door  to  freedom  must  be  closed! " 
Once  past  that  door,  with  broadened  view, 
They  find  Him  better  than  they  knew. 


52  THE    PILLARS    OF    HERCULES 

Meanwhile,  along  the  sunlit  strait 
My  ship  glides  toward  the  saffron  west, 
Out  through  the  old  Phenician  gate 
To  ocean's  gently  heaving  breast, 
Whence,  on  the  ever-freshening  breeze, 
Come  to  my  spirit  words  like  these ; — 

Sail  bravely  on!  the  morning  light 
Shall  find  thee  far  beyond  the  land ; 
Gibraltar's  battlemented  height 
And  Afric's  tawny  hills  of  sand 
Shall  soon  completely  sink  from  view 
Beneath  the  ocean's  belt  of  blue. 

Sail  on !  nor  heed  the  shadows  vast 
Of  fabled  Powers,  whose  fear  enslaves! 
Their  spectral  shapes  shall  sink  at  last 
Below  the  night's  abandoned  waves; 
Rest  not  confined  by  shoals  and  bars ; 
Steer  oceanward  by  God's  fixed  stars! 


FRIENDSHIP 


'Tis  not  in  the  bitterest  woes  of  life 
That  the  love  of  friends,  as  a  rule,  grows  cold; 
Still  less  does  it  melt  in  the  heat  of  strife, 
Or  die  from  the  canker  of  borrowed  gold; 

For  pity  comes  when  they  see  us  grieved, 
Or  forced  to  lie  on  a  couch  of  pain, 
And  a  hasty  word  is  soon  retrieved, 
And  the  loan  of  money  may  leave  no  stain. 

'Tis  oftenest  lost  through  the  deadly  blight 
Of  Society's  pestilential  air, 
Which  blackens  the  robe  of  purest  white, 
And  fouls  what  once  was  sweet  and  fair. 

An  envious  woman's  whispered  word, 
A  slander  born  of  a  cruel  smile, 
The  repetition  of  something  heard, 
The  imputation  of  something  vile, 

Or  possibly  even  a  fancied  slight 
For  a  feast  declined,  or  a  call  delayed, 


54  FRIENDSHIP 

Or  jealousy  caused  by  petty  spite, 

Or  the  wish  for  a  higher  social  grade, — 

'Tis  one,  or  all  of  these  combined, 
That  saps  the  love  of  our  dearest  friends, 
And  slowly  poisons  heart  and  mind, 
Till  the  joy  of  generous  friendship  ends. 

Last  night  they  were  in  a  cordial  mood, 

But  to-day  they  suddenly  seem  estranged, 

And  for  hours  we  suffer,  and  sadly  brood 

O'er  the  unknown  cause  that  has  made  them  changed. 

Ask  once,  that  they  make  the  matter  clear, 
But  ask  no  more,  if  the  lesson  fail ; 
Let  the  changeling  go,  however  dear, 
And  shed  no  tears  for  a  love  so  frail. 

Be  not  the  slave  of  a  friend's  migraine, 
Nor  let  him  play,  now  hot,  now  cold; 
The  master  of  thyself  remain, 
And  the  key  of  thine  inmost  heart  withhold! 

For  they  who  weep  and  sue  and  plead, 

Are  used  and  dropped,  like  a  worn-out  glove, 

And  the  friends  with  "  moods  "  are  the  friends  who 

need 
To  learn  that  they  are  not  worth  our  love. 


TO  MY  DEAD  DOG 

All  is  noiseless; 

Cold  and  voiceless 
Lies  the  form  I've  oft  caressed; 
Heedless  now  of  blame  or  praises, 
'Neath  the  sunshine  and  the  daisies 
Little  Nina  lies  at  rest. 

Eager  greeting, 

Joy  at  meeting, 

Watching  for  my  step  to  come, 
Grief  at  briefest  separation, 
Sorrow  without  affectation, — 
These  are  over, — she  is  dumb! 

Loyal  ever, 
Treacherous  never, 

Lifelong  love  she  well  expressed; 

Ah!  may  we  deserve  like  praises 

When  beneath  the  sun-kissed  daisies 

We,  like  Nina,  lie  at  rest! 


TO-DAY 

"  The  sun  will  set  at  day's  decline  " ; 

Qu'importe  ? 

Quaff  off  meanwhile  life's  sparkling  wine! 
Of  what  avail  are  mournful  fears, 
Foreboding  sighs  and  idle  tears, 
They  hinder  not  the  hurrying  years; 
Buvons ! 

"  This  fleeting  hour  will  soon  be  past " ; 

Qu'importe  ? 

Enrich  its  moments  while  they  last ! 
To-day  is  ours ;  be  ours  its  joy ! 
Let  not  to-morrow's  cares  annoy! 
Enough  the  present  to  employ; 
Vivons ! 

"  These  pleasures  will  not  come  again  " ; 

Qu'importe  ? 

Enjoy  their  keenest  transport  then! 
If  but  of  these  we  are  secure, 
Be  of  their  sweetness  doubly  sure, 
That  long  their  memory  may  endure ! 
Rions ! 


TO-DAY  57 

"  With  time  love's  ardor  always  cools  " ; 

Qu'importe  ? 

Leave  that  lugubrious  chant  to  fools ! 
Must  doubt  destroy  our  present  bliss? 
Shall  we  through  fear  love's  rapture  miss, 
Or  lose  the  honey  of  its  kiss? 
Aimons ! 


"  The  sun  will  set  at  day's  decline  " ; 

Qu'importe  ? 

Will  not  the  eternal  stars  still  shine? 
So  even  in  life's  most  dreary  night 
A  thousand  quenchless  suns  are  bright, — • 
Blest  souvenirs  of  past  delight; 
Allons! 


TO  THE  COUNTESS  GUICCIOLI,  AFTER 
READING  HER  "RECOLLECTIONS  OF 
LORD  BYRON" 

Like  one  who,  homeward  bound  from  distant  lands, 

Tells  of  strange  climes  and  visions  passing  fair, 

Yet  deftly  hides  from  others'  eyes  and  hands 

A  private  casket  filled  with  treasures  rare, 

So,  favored  Countess,  all  that  thou  dost  say 

Is  nothing  to  thy  secrets  left  unsaid ; 

Thy  printed  souvenirs  are  but  the  spray 

Tossed  from  the  depths  of  ocean's  briny  bed. 

For,  oh !  how  often  must  thy  mind  retrace 

Soft  phrases  whispered  in  the  Tuscan  tongue, 

Love's  changes  sweeping  o'er  his  mobile  face, 

And  kisses  sweeter  far  than  he  had  sung; 

The  gleam  of  passion  in  his  glorious  eyes, 

The  hours  of  inspiration  when  he  wrote, 

To  be  recalled  to  Earth  in  sweet  surprise 

At  feeling  thy  white  arms  about  his  throat; 

To  have  been  loved  by  Byron !    Not  in  youth 

When  the  hot  senses  tempt  to  reckless  choice, 

But  in  maturer  years,  when  keen-eyed  Truth 

Reveals  the  folly  of  the  siren's  voice. 

Last  love  is  best,  and  this  thou  didst  enjoy; 


TO   THE   COUNTESS   GUICCIOLI         59 

Thy  happy  fate  to  see  no  rival  claim 

A  share  in  what  was  thine  without  alloy ; 

How  must  the  remnant  of  thy  life  seem  tame ! 

Yet  this  thy  recompense, — that  thou  dost  keep 

Thy  friend  and  lover  safe  from  every  change ; 

For,  loyal  to  thy  love,  he  fell  asleep, 

And  it  is  life,  not  death,  that  can  estrange. 


THE   BUTTERFLY: 

I  watched  to-day  a  butterfly, 
With  gorgeous  wings  of  golden  sheen, 
Flit  lightly  'neath  a  sapphire  sky 
Amid  the  springtime's  tender  green; — 

A  creature  so  divinely  fair, 

So  frail,  so  wraithlike  to  the  sight, 

I  feared  to  see  it  melt  in  air, 

As  clouds  dissolve  in  morning  light. 

With  sudden  swoop,  a  brutal  boy 
Caught  in  his  cap  its  fans  of  gold, 
And  forced  them  down  with  savage  joy 
Into  the  path's  defiling  mould ; 

Then  cautiously,  the  ground  well  scanned, 
He  clutched  his  darkened,  helpless  prey, 
And,  pinched  within  his  grimy  hand, 
Withdrew  it  to  the  light  of  day. 

Alas !  its  fragile  bloom  was  gone, 
Its  gracile  frame  was  sorely  hurt, 


THE   BUTTERFLY  61 

Its  silken  pinions  drooped  forlorn, 
Disfigured  by  the  dust  and  dirt ; 

Its  life,  a  moment  since  so  gay, 
So  joyous  in  its  dainty  flight, 
Was  slowly  ebbing  now  away, — 
Its  too-brief  day  eclipsed  by  night. 

Meantime,  the  vandal,  face  aflame, 
Surveyed  it  dying  in  his  grasp, 
Yet  knew  no  grief  nor  sense  of  shame 
In  watching  for  its  final  gasp. 

At  last  its  sails  of  gold  and  brown, 

Of  texture  fine  and  colors  rare, 

Came,  death-struck,  slowly  fluttering  down, 

No  more  to  cleave  the  sunlit  air; 

One  happy,  harmless  being  less, 

To  bid  us  dream  the  world  is  sweet ! 

Gone  like  a  gleam  of  happiness, 

A  glimpse  of  rapture  .  .  .  incomplete! 


Yet  who  shall  say  that  creature  fair 
In  God's  sight  had  a  smaller  worth 
Than  the  dull  lout  who  watched  it  there, 
And  in  its  death  found  cause  for  mirth  ? 


62  THE   BUTTERFLY 

For  what,  in  truth,  are  we  who  claim 
An  endless  life  beyond  the  grave, 
But  insects  of  a  larger  frame, 
Whose  souls  may  be  too  small  to  save? 

Since  the  dim  age  when  Cave  Men  fought 
Like  famished  brutes  for  bloody  food, 
And  through  unnumbered  centuries  sought 
To  rear  their  naked,  whelp-like  brood, 

What  of  the  billions  who  have  died, 
From  pole  to  pole  through  every  clime? 
An  awful,  never-ending  tide 
Swept  deathward  on  the  shores  of  Time ! 

Like  insects  swarming  in  the  sun, 
They  flutter,  struggle,  mate,  and  die, 
And,  with  their  life-work  scarce  begun, 
Are  struck  down  like  the  butterfly; 

A  million  more,  a  million  less, 
What  matters  it?    The  Earth  rolls  on, 
Unmindful  of  mankind's  distress, 
Or  if  the  race  be  here,  or  gone. 

Thus  rolled  our  globe  ere  man  appeared, 
And  thus  will  roll,  with  wrinkled  crust, 


THE    BUTTERFLY  63 

Deserted,  lifeless,  old,  and  seared, 
When  man  shall  have  returned  to  dust. 


And  IT  at  last  shall  also  die ! 
Hence,  measured  by  the  eternal  scale, 
It  ranks  but  as  the  butterfly, — 
A  world,  ephemeral,  fair  and  frail. 

Man,  insect,  earth,  or  distant  star, — 
They  differ  only  in  degree; 
Their  transient  lives,  or  near  or  far, 
Are  moments  in  eternity! 

Yet  somehow  to  my  spirit  clings 

The  faith  that  man  survives  the  sod, 

As  the  poor  insect's  broken  wings 

Have  raised  my  thoughts  from  earth  to  God. 


AFTER   THE   STORM 

The  duel  of  the  warring  clouds 
Hath  ended  with  the  day; 
Their  scintillant,  electric  blades 
Have  ceased  their  fearful  play; 
The  pent  up  fury  of  their  hate 
Hath  found  at  last  release, 
And  o'er  the  tempest-stricken  earth 
Broods  now  the  hush  of  peace. 

The  passing  of  the  hurricane 
Hath  swept  the  sultry  skies ; 
The  clearness  of  the  atmosphere 
Brings  jubilant  surprise; 
The  mountain  peaks  are  glorified 
With  freshly-fallen  snow, 
And,  stealing  o'er  their  coronets, 
Appears  the  sunset  glow. 

An  hour  since,  a  torrid  heat 
Oppressed  the  languid  frame; 
The  wind  was  as  the  khamseen's  breath, 
The  solar  touch  seemed  flame ; 


AFTER  THE   STORM  65 

But  now  the  air  rejuvenates, 
The  breeze  refreshment  brings, 
The  lustrous  leaves  drop  diamonds, 
The  lark  with  rapture  sings. 

Fear  not,  dear  heart !  life's  darkest  storms 
Shall  likewise  end  in  light ; 
Behind  the  blackest  thundercloud 
The  sun  shines  clear  and  bright; 
Once  more  celestial  height  shall  wear 
Their  sheen  of  spotless  snow, 
And  on  the  bravely  steadfast  soul 
The  smile  of  God  shall  glow. 


FALLEN 

My  country!  by  our  fathers  reared 
As  champion  of  the  world's  opprest; 
Whose  moral  force  the  tyrant  feared; 
Whose  flag  all  struggling  freemen  cheered; 
In  clutching  at  an  empire's  crest 
Thou  art  now  fallen  like  the  rest. 


Not  in  thy  numbers,  wealth  or  might, 
Proud  mistress  of  a  continent! 
For  rival  nations,  at  the  sight 
Of  thy  resources,  view  with  fright 
Thy  progress  without  precedent; 
Not  there  is  seen  thy  swift  descent. 


Reread  the  story  of  thy  birth! 
Recall  the  years  in  conflict  spent 
To  prove  to  a  despairing  earth 
That  every  Government  of  worth 
Rests  on  the  govern'd's  free  consent; 
Then  view  with  shame  thy  present  bent ! 


FALLEN  67 

Thou  hadst  a  place  unique,  sublime; 
In  many  a  land  beyond  the  sea 
The  victims  of  despotic  crime 
In  thee,  the  latest  born  of  Time, 
Beheld  a  land  from  tyrants  free, 
The  sacred  Ark  of  Liberty. 

But  now  the  Old  World's  lust  for  lands 
Infects  thee  too;  the  dread  disease 
Hath  left  its  plague-spots  on  thy  hands; 
Thy  monster  area  still  expands; 
For,  blind  to  history's  Nemesis, 
Thou  too  wouldst  alien  races  seize. 

Condemning  with  profound  disdain 

All  other  nations'  heartless  greed, 

How  couldst  thou  buy  from  humbled  Spain 

A  people  struggling  to  attain 

A  freedom  suited  to  their  need? 

Why  stultify  thy  boasted  creed? 

Thine  aid  to  them  thou  mightst  have  given, 
As  France  her  aid  once  gave  to  thee ; 
With  them  thy  sons  might  well  have  striven, 
And  their  blood-rusted  fetters  riven; 
But  why,  in  Heaven's  name,  should  we 
Shoot  men  aspiring  to  be  free? 


68  FALLEN 

I  tread  the  fields  where  thousands  sleep, — 
The  blood-soaked  fields  that  freed  the  slave; 
What  precious  memories  still  they  keep 
For  hearts  that  mourn  and  eyes  that  weep! 
Yet  for  the  lives  those  heroes  gave 
What  have  we  that  they  died  to  save? 

A  Union?    Yes;  outstretched  in  might 
From  snow  to  palm,  from  sea  to  sea; 
But  pledged  to  use  its  strength  aright, 
And  evermore  to  keep  alight 
The  torch  of  human  liberty : 
Is  this  the  Union  that  we  see? 

Where  history's  Martyr  dared  to  break 
The  power  that  held  a  race  in  chains, 
I  see  the  ghastly  lynching-stake, 
Where  brutal  mobs  their  vengeance  take, 
And,  since  no  law  their  course  restrains, 
Gloat  o'er  their  writhing  victim's  pains. 

Race  hatred, — born  of  groundless  fears 

And  narrow  prejudice  of  caste — , 

Now  greets  the  cultured  black  with  sneers 

And,  barring  him  from  high  careers, 

Breaks,  like  a  mad  iconoclast, 

The  nation's  idols  of  the  past. 


FALLEN  69 

No  more  can  we  with  steadfast  eyes 

Protest,  when  tortured  races  moan 

With  hands  uplifted  toward  the  skies; 

Their  tyrants  answer  with  surprise 

And  new-born  insolence  of  tone, — 

"  These  are  our  lynchings ;  cure  your  own ! " 

Yet  hope  remains!    A  path  retraced 

Is  nobler  than  persistent  wrong; 

A  fault  confessed  is  half  effaced; 

That  land  alone  can  be  disgraced 

Which  is  not  just,  however  strong, 

Toward  those  to  whom  its  "  spoils  "  belong. 

My  country!     Would  to  God  that  praise 
Might  leave  my  lips,  instead  of  blame! 
So  near  the  parting  of  the  ways, 
Subjected  to  the  eager  gaze 
Of  millions,  jealous  of  thy  fame, 
Retrace  the  path  that  ends  in  shame! 


"  AEQUANIMITAS  " 

Watchword  sublime  of  Rome's  imperial  sage, 
Tersest  of  synonyms  for  self-control, 
Paramount  precept  of  the  Stoic's  age, 
Noblest  of  mottoes  for  the  lofty  soul, — 
Would  thou  wert  writ  in  characters  of  light, 
At  every  turn  to  greet  my  reverent  gaze, 
And  bid  me  face  life's  evils,  calm,  upright, 
Unspoiled  alike  by  calumny  or  praise ! 
With  all  our  science  we  are  slaves  of  Fate  ; 
What  is  to  come  we  know  not,  cannot  know ; 
Grief,  suffering,  death, — all  touch  us  soon  or  late, 
The  master  question,  how  to  meet  the  blow. 
Grant  me,  ye  Gods,  through  life  a  steadfast  eye, 
And  then,  with  equanimity,  to  die! 


THE  DEATH  OF  ANTONINUS   PIUS 

Through  the  marble  gates  of  Ostia, 
Where  the  Tiber  meets  the  sea, 
And  a  hundred  Roman  galleys 
Strain  their  leashes  to  be  free, 
Streams  a  flood  of  sunset  glory 
From  the  classic  sea  of  old, 
Till  Rome's  seven  hills  stand  gleaming, 
And  the  Tiber  turns  to  gold. 

Why,  indifferent  to  this  splendor, 
Do  the  people  throng  the  streets? 
What  is  everyone  demanding 
Of  the  stranger  whom  he  meets? 
They  have  heard  alas!  the  rumor 
That,  ere  dawn  regilds  the  sky, 
All  the  world  may  be  in  mourning, 
For  the  Emperor  must  die. 

Search,  O  Romans,  through  the  annals 
Of  the  rulers  of  your  race, 
From  the  zenith  of  their  glory 
To  their  ultimate  disgrace, — 


72     THE   DEATH    OF   ANTONINUS    PIUS 

And  as  earth's  most  perfect  master, 
And  the  noblest  of  your  line, 
You  will  yield  your  greatest  homage 
To  this  dying  Antonine. 


For  he  holds  a  Caesar's  sceptre 
In  a  loving  father's  hand, 
And  his  heart  and  soul  are  given 
To  the  welfare  of  his  land; 
Through  his  justice  every  nation 
Hath  beheld  its  warfare  cease, 
And  he  leaves  to  his  successor 
Rome's  gigantic  world  at  peace. 

Hence  these  nations  now  are  waiting 
In  an  anguish  of  suspense; 
For  their  future  is  as  doubtful, 
As  their  love  for  him  intense ; 
By  the  Nile  and  on  the  Danube, 
From  the  Tagus  to  the  Rhine, 
There  is  mourning  among  millions 
For  the  man  they  deem  divine. 

Now  the  sunset  glow  is  fading, 
And  the  evening  shadows  creep 
O'er  the  ashen  face  of  Caesar, 
As  he  lies  in  seeming  sleep; 


THE   DEATH    OF   ANTONINUS    PIUS      73 

But  he  slumbers  not;  for,  faithful 
To  his  duties,  small  and  great, 
He  is  not  alone  the  sovereign, 
But  the  servant  of  the  State. 


Unrebuked,  then,  his  Centurion, 
As  the  sun-god  sinks  from  sight, 
Makes  his  wonted  way  to  Caesar 
For  the  password  of  the  night; 
And  great  Antonine,  though  conscious 
That  ere  dawn  his  soul  must  pass, 
As  his  last,  imperial  watchword, 
Utters  "  ^Equanimitas !  " 

O  thou  noblest  of  the  Caesars, 
Whose  transcendent  virtues  shine, 
Like  a  glorious  constellation, 
O'er  the  blood-stained  Palatine, 
When  the  latest  sands  are  running 
From  my  life's  exhausted  glass, 
May  I  have  thy  calm  and  courage, 
And  thine  ^quanimitas! 


ROME    REVISITED 

0  sovereign  Rome,  still  mistress  of  the  heart, 
As  of  the  world  in  thy  majestic  prime, 
Grand  in  thy  ruins,  peerless  in  thine  art, 
Rich  in  the  memories  of  a  past  sublime, 

Is  thine  the  fault  or  mine  that  thou  art  changed, 
And  that  I  tread  the  new  Tiberian  shore 
Convinced,  alas!  that  we  are  now  estranged, 
And  that  for  me  thy  charm  exists  no  more? 

1  have  grown  older,  but  am  not  blase, 

My  hair  has  whitened,  but  my  heart  is  young, 
Still  thrills  my  pulse  the  tomb-girt  Appian  Way, 
Still  stirs  my  soul  the  ancient  Latin  tongue. 

Whence  then  this  transformation,  that  pervades 
Rome's  very  air,  and  leaves  its  blighting  trace 
Alike  upon  the  Pincio's  colonnades 
And  on  the  Mausoleum's  rugged  face? 

The  fault,  dear  Rome,  is  neither  thine  nor  mine, 
But  that  of  vandals  nurtured  on  thy  breast, 


ROME   REVISITED  75 

Who,  mad  as  "  modern  citizens  "  to  shine, 
Have  fashioned  thee  like  cities  of  the  west. 


Thy  time-worn  face,  and  figure  deeply  bowed 
By  countless  sufferings  for  two  thousand  years, 
Whose  proper  garment  seemed  to  be  a  shroud, 
Commanding  reverence,  sympathy  and  tears, 

Are  now  bedecked  with  tawdry  gems  of  paste; 
Parisian  robes  thy  withered  limbs  conceal; 
Thy  wrinkled  cheeks  are  rouged ;  in  vulgar  taste 
A  modern  watch-fob  holds  the  Caesar's  seal ! 

Where  once  the  splendors  of  the  Triumph  passed, 
Electric  cars  roll  thundering  through  thy  streets; 
In  Raphael's  groves  the  automobile's  blast 
Expels  the  Muses  from  their  calm  retreats. 

Through  sinuous  miles  of  shops  with  worldly  wares 
Bewildered  pilgrims  reach  St.  Peter's  shrine; 
Some  modern  stamp  each  old  piazza  bears; 
And  freed  from  weeds,  thy  burnished  ruins  shine ! 

Near  Hadrian's  massive  bridge  of  sculptured  stone, 
The  Tiber  surges  'neath  an  iron  frame, 
Across  whose  ugly  beams  the  tramcars  groan, 
And  brand  the  river  with  a  bar  of  shame. 


76  ROME    REVISITED 

Gods  of  Olympus,  can  ye  not  restore 
To  outraged  Rome  her  dignity  of  old? 
'Twere  better  Jove  and  Juno  to  adore 
Than  in  their  stead  to  worship  only  Gold ! 

Thy  glorious  statues,  cruelly  defaced, 
Thy  crumbling  shrines,  thy  marbles  burnt  to  lime, 
The  lone  Campagna's  fever-stricken  waste, 
Where  lizards  bask  on  columns  once  sublime, — 

The  Flavian  Amphitheatre's  gaping  wounds, 
The  Baths  of  Caracalla's  roofless  walls, 
The  Forum's  multitude  of  ruined  mounds, 
The  royal  Palatine's  abandoned  halls, — 

All  these  indeed  create  a  hopeless  pain, 
When  from  their  parts  we  reconstruct  the  whole, 
Yet  from  the  pathos  of  a  wreck-strewn  plain 
We  gain  at  least  nobility  of  soul ; 

But  where  a  Syndic's  greed  hath  left  its  trail 
The  picturesque  and  beautiful  take  flight; 
The  Past's  inspiring  influences  fail, 
As  stars  are  hidden  by  electric  light. 

Yet  protests  meet  derision  and  disdain; 

The  fatal  madness  spreads  from  land  to  land; 


ROME    REVISITED  77 

Peace,  Art,  and  Beauty  everywhere  are  slain 
By  greedy  Traffic's  hard,  rapacious  hand. 

We  laugh  at  lessons  taught  by  others'  fate, 
We  see  no  ending  to  our  prosperous  day ; 
Forgetting  that,  in  turn,  each  ancient  State 
Hath  passed  through  bud  and  flower  to  decay. 

Behold  the  retrogression  of  those  lands 
Whence  painting,  sculpture  and  the  drama  sprung; 
See  starved  Trinacria's  outstretched,  empty  hands, 
And  all  the  classic  shores  by  Homer  sung! 

In  what  have  we  surpassed  them?    We  are  taught 
Their  art,  their  ethics,  and  their  rythmic  speech; 
Both  Greece  aid  Asia  still  control  our  thought, 
Their  grandes:  works  are  still  beyond  our  reach. 

The  breathless  transfer  of  men,  thoughts,  and  things, 
Improved  d<signs  for  vaster  fratricide, — 
Are  these  tie  leading  gifts  this  century  brings, 
The  twentieth,  too,  since  Christ  was  crucified? 

Yet  thoughts  that  most  have  influenced  mankind 
Were  not  sent  broadcast  with  the  lightning's  speed; 
Nor  do  tie  works  of  Plato  lag  behind 
The  mytad  books  and  papers  that  we  read ! 


78  ROME    REVISITED 

And  thou,  Italia,  that  for  ages  played 
A  role  whose  majesty  can  ne'er  be  told, 
Hast  thou,  like  all  the  rest,  thy  trust  betrayed, 
Adored  the  New,  and  sacrificed  the  Old? 


Wilt  thou  for  fashion  make  thy  Past  forlorn? 
Waste  precious  substance  upon  useless  ships? 
Transport  to  Africa  thine  eldest  born, 
And  let  gaunt  hunger  blanch  thy  peasants'  lips? 


Make  poorly  paid  officials  banded  knaves? 
Drive  starving  sons  by  thousands  from  thy  shore, 
Or  let  them  rot  in  Abyssinian  graves,\ 
And  hide  the  cancer  festering  at  thy  tare? 

If  so,  'tis  certain  thou  must  dearly  pay 

For  playing  thus  the  war-lord's  pompoik  part, 

And  thou  shalt  feel  at  no  far-distant  da] 

The  people's  dagger  driven  through  thyVheart. 

Fain  would  I  find  some  peaceful  Pagan  shrine 
Unspoiled  as  yet  by  vandals  of  to-day, 
Around  whose  shafts  the  sweet,  wild  rosesWine, 
And  on  whose  marble  walls  the  sunbeams  pay; 

There  would  I  dream  of  days  when  life  was^sweet 
With  poetry,  art,  and  myths  devoid  of  dread 


ROME   REVISITED  79 

When  all  the  Gods  in  harmony  could  meet, 
And  no  eternal  torment  vexed  the  dead. 


Our  vaunted  age  is  one  of  feverish  haste, 
Of  racial  hatred  and  of  loathsome  cant, 
Of  gross  corruption  and  of  tawdry  taste, 
Of  monster  fortunes,  with  a  world  in  want. 

I  am  not  of  it,  and  I  will  not  be ! 

Its  social  strife  and  slavery  I  despise ; 

Gone  is  its  shore;  I  sail  the  open  sea 

O'er  tranquil  waters  and  'neath  cloudless  skies! 


ON  THE   PALATINE 

I  tread  the  vast  deserted  stage 
Whereon  the  Caesars  lived  and  died; 
The  relics  of  Rome's  golden  age 
Lie  strewn  about  me  far  and  wide, 
Mementoes  of  an  empire's  pride, 
The  homes  of  men  once  deified. 


What  are  they  now?     Stupendous  piles 
Of  mouldering  corridors  and  walls, 
On  which  alike  the  sunshine  smiles 
And  cold  the  rain  of  winter  falls; 
A  wilderness  of  roofless  halls 
Whose  tragic  history  appalls! 


Below  me,  like  an  opened  grave, 
The  Forum's  excavations  lie, 
Where  column,  arch  and  architrave 
In  solemn  grandeur  greet  the  eye, 
Still  guarding  'neath  Italia's  sky 
The  glory  that  can  never  die. 


ON   THE    PALATINE  81 

And  here,  above  me  and  around, 
In  part  still  shrouded  by  the  soil, 
A  stony  chaos  strews  the  ground, 
Where  patient  students  delve  and  toil 
To  bring  to  light  Time's  buried  spoil, 
And  History's  tangled  threads  uncoil. 

Halt !  where  thou  standest  Rome  was  born ! 
These  stones  by  Romulus  were  placed, 
When,  on  that  far-off  April  morn, 
Two  snow-white  bulls  the  furrow  traced 
For  Rome's  first  wall,  which,  firmly  based, 
Two  thousand  years  have  not  effaced. 

From  these  rude  blocks  how  vast  the  bound 
To  that  huge,  labyrinthine  mass 
Through  which  the  secret  pathways  wound, 
Where  emperors,  if  alarmed,  could  pass; 
Yet  even  there  could  find,  alas ! 
The  poignard  or  the  poisoned  glass. 

What  ghastly  crimes  these  rooms  recall! 
Here  Nero  watched  his  brother  drain 
The  fatal  draught,  then  lifeless  fall; 
Here,  too,  Caligula  was  slain, 
When,  shrieking,  with  disordered  brain, 
He  pleaded  for  his  life  in  vain. 


82  ON   THE    PALATINE 

At  every  turn  some  pallid  ghost 
With  haggard  features  seems  to  rise 
To  join  the  long-drawn  murdered  host 
That  moves  with  sad,  averted  eyes, 
Like  victims  to  a  sacrifice, 
To  where  the  Via  Sacra  lies. 

This  was  the  mighty  Judgment  Hall, 
Where  Nero  with  indifferent  air 
Remarked  the  pleading  of  St.  Paul, 
Nor  dreamed  the  man  before  him  there 
Would  soon  be  read  and  reverenced  where 
The  Roman  empire  had  no  share. 

Where  are  they  all, — those  men  of  pride 

Whose  palace  was  the  Palatine, 

From  Romulus  the  fratricide 

To  Hadrian,  and  Constantine, 

Last  of  the  mighty  western  line 

Of  Caesars  who  were  deemed  divine? 

And  all  the  millions  who  were  swayed 

By  those  who  dwelt  upon  this  hill, 

And  who  in  humble  awe  obeyed 

The  dictates  of  their  sovereign  will,— 

Are  they  self-conscious  beings  still, 

Or  are  their  minds  and  bodies  .  .  .  Nil? 


ON   THE    PALATINE  83 

I  watch  our  planet's  god  decline 
Behind  the  tomb-girt  Appian  Way; 
The  old,  imperial  Palatine 
Grows  purple  'neath  the  sun's  last  ray; 
Shades  of  the  Caesars,  if  ye  may, 
The  mystery  of  death  portray! 

Are  there  in  truth  Elysian  Fields  ? 
Is  there  a  life  beyond  the  grave  ? 
Or  are  the  years  that  Nature  yields 
Confined  this  side  the  Stygian  wave? 
For  those  who  more  existence  crave 
Is  there  a  Power  to  help  and  save  ? 

Alas !  no  answer ;  on  their  hill 
The  murdered  Caesars  make  no  sign; 
Their  myriad  subjects,  too,  are  still, — 
Mute  as  the  voiceless  Palatine; 
Yet  overhead  the  fixed  stars  shine, 
And  bid  us  trust  in  the  Divine ! 


THE   FAREWELL   OF   THE   OLD   GUARD 
AT  FONTAINEBLEAU,    1814 

Stately  court  of  Fontainebleau, 

Two  and  ninety  years  ago 

On  thy  spacious  esplanade, 

Ranged  in  formal  dress  parade, 

Stood  the  Emperor's  grenadiers 

With  their  bronzed  cheeks  wet  with  tears, 

Waiting  once  again  to  show 

Love  for  him  at  Fontainebleau. 

Noon  had  struck  above  the  square, 
When  adown  the  Horse  Shoe  stair 
In  his  well-known  coat  of  gray, 
Worn  on  many  a  hard-fought  day, 
Came  the  man  adored  by  all 
As  their  "  Little  Corporal," 
Forced  by  Europe  now  to  go 
Far  from  royal  Fontainebleau. 

In  the  ranks  a  sudden  stir 
Swelled  to  shouts  of  Vive  TEmpereur; 
Then  deep  silence  reigned,  save  where 
On  the  peaceful  summer  air 


FAREWELL    OF   THE    OLD    GUARD       85 

Choking  sobs,  but  half  suppressed, 
Came  from  many  a  faithful  breast 
At  the  overwhelming  blow 
Dealt  them  here  at  Fontainebleau. 


Could  the  rumor,  then,  be  true? 
Would  he  say  to  them  adieu? 
Would  their  idol  and  their  pride, 
He  whom  they  had  deified, 
Leave  his  royal  grenadiers, 
Veteran  troops  of  twenty  years? 
Hark!  he  speaks  in  accents  low 
To  his  Guard  at  Fontainebleau : — 

"  Comrades,  brothers,  we  must  part  " ; 
(How  his  lov'd  tones  thrilled  each  heart!) 
"  It  were  wrong  to  you  and  France, 
Did  I  once  more  say  '  Advance  ' ; 
On  the  ruins  of  my  State 
I  at  last  must  abdicate, 
And  with  you  no  more  can  know 
Happy  days  at  Fontainebleau. 

"  Valiant  soldiers  of  my  Guard, 
Thus  to  part  is  doubly  hard ; 
Did  you  silence  Prussian  guns, 
March  beneath  Italian  suns, 


86       FAREWELL   OF   THE   OLD    GUARD 

Enter  Moscow  and  Madrid, 
Fight  beside  the  Pyramid, 
And  survive  grim  Russia's  snow, — 
Thus  to  yield  at  Fontainebleau  ? 

"  Heroes  of  great  wars,  farewell ! 

You  have  heard  my  empire's  knell, 

Yet  no  hostile  world's  decree 

Can  estrange  your  hearts  from  me; 

Exiled  to  a  tiny  isle, 

Through  your  tears  you  well  may  smile 

At  the  realm  my  foes  bestow, — 

Elba  .  .  .  after  Fontainebleau! 

"  Now  of  all  who  once  were  true 
I  can  count  alone  on  you; 
Would  that  each  might  take  the  place 
Of  the  eagle  I  embrace! 
Let  the  tears  which  on  it  fall 
Move  the  souls  of  one  and  all! 
Never  have  I  loved  you  so 
As  to-day  at  Fontainebleau." 

Hushed  his  voice;  a  moment  more, 
'At  the  passing  carriage  door 
Gleamed  Napoleon's  mournful  eyes, — 
Smouldering  flames  of  sacrifice; 


FAREWELL   OF   THE   OLD    GUARD       87 

Then  his  pallid,  classic  face 
Vanished  ghostlike  into  space, 
And  a  dreary  sense  of  woe 
Settled  over  Fontainebleau. 


Dead  are  now  those  grenadiers; 
Quelled  are  Europe's  anxious  fears; 
By  the  Seine  the  Emperor  sleeps; 
France  her  watch  beside  him  keeps; 
But  the  lonely  Horse  Shoe  stair 
Still  preserves  its  sombre  air, 
For  the  light  of  long  ago 
Falls  no  more  on  Fontainebleau. 


JAPAN,— OLD  AND   NEW 

The  son  of  a  Japanese  lord  am  I, — 

A  Prince  of  the  olden  time; 

My  hair  is  white,  though  black  as  night 

In  my  youth  and  early  prime ; 

And  again  and  again  I  ask  myself, 

As  the  past  I  sadly  scan, 

Are  we  better  or  worse  ?    Was  it  blessing  or  curse 

That  foreigners  brought  Japan? 

It  is  barely  two  score  years  and  ten 

Since  the  epoch-making  day 

When  a  foreign  fleet,  through  the  summer  heat, 

Came  sailing  up  our  bay; 

Still  ring  in  my  ears  my  father's  words, 

As  we  watched  it  breast  the  waves, — 

"  If  strangers  land  on  Nippon's  strand, 

We  may  one  day  be  their  slaves." 

But  the  strangers  landed,  and  asked  for  trade 
And  a  permanent  "  Open  Door," 
And  we  deemed  it  best  to  grant  the  West 
A  foothold  on  our  shore; 


JAPAN,— OLD    AND    NEW  89 

Their  slaves  in  truth  we  have  not  become, 
Yet  who  can  fail  to  find 
That  Japan  obeys  in  a  thousand  ways 
The  will  of  the  western  mind  ? 


We  sent  our  sons  across  the  seas 

To  learn  from  the  Western  Powers 

Their  modes  of  life  and  their  modes  of  strife, 

And  have  made  them  largely  ours; 

But  before  all  else  have  we  learned  from  them 

That  our  first  great  aim  must  be 

To  possess  a  fleet  that  can  defeat 

All  rivals  on  the  sea. 

Hence,  all  that  the  West  hath  yet  devised 

For  the  slaughter  of  men  en  masse 

We  have  copied  or  bought,  and  have  stopped  at  naught 

To  make  our  fleet  "  first  class  " ; 

And  lest  this  might  not  quite  suffice, 

Should  an  enemy  come  in  sight, 

We  have  made  each  man  throughout  Japan 

A  soldier  trained  to  fight ! 

But  alas  for  the  change  that  hath  been  wrought 
In  the  millions  in  our  fields ! 
For  the  costly  ships  take  from  their  lips 
The  food  that  the  harvest  yields ; 


90  JAPAN,— OLD    AND   NEW 

They  were  always  poor,  but  their  load  was  light, 
Compared  with  their  load  to-day, 
For  thousands  of  hands  that  worked  the  lands 
Are  drafted  now  away. 

And  sad  are  the  scenes  in  the  sphere  of  Art 
In  which  we  had  won  such  fame ; 
The  fingers  left  are  not  so  deft 
As  they  were  when  the  strangers  came; 
For  then  we  toiled  for  Beauty's  sake, 
And  by  time  were  we  never  paid ; 
But  now  we  have  sold  our  art  for  gold 
And  the  western  market's  trade. 


I  can  never  look  at  the  goods  now  sent, — 

So  worthless  do  they  seem, 

That  I  do  not  sigh  for  the  standard  high 

Which  prevailed  in  the  old  regime; 

When  even  the  hilt  of  a  Daimio's  sword 

Was  a  work  of  months  or  years, 

And  the  highest  reward  for  a  triumph  scored 

Was  praise  from  the  artist's  peers. 

No,  the  soul  of  my  people  is  not  the  same ; 
It  was  formerly  sweet  and  kind, 
And  happiness  reigned  in  hearts  restrained 
By  an  unspoiled,  gentle  mind; 


JAPAN,— OLD   AND   NEW  91 

But  now  the  lusts  of  the  outer  world 
For  power,  and  lands,  and  gold, 
Our  sons  deprave,  till  they  madly  crave 
What  others  have  and  hold. 


We  have  borrowed  many  things  from  the  West, 

But  one  have  we  left  alone; 

Of  its  Christian  creed  we  had  no  need, 

And  have  thus  far  kept  our  own; 

For  each  of  its  numerous  sects  affirms 

That  it  has  the  only  way, 

And  that  all  the  rest  should  be  suppressed, 

For  they  lead  mankind  astray. 

But  worse  than  the  claims  of  rival  sects 

And  the  war  of  clashing  creeds, 

Is  the  gulf, — heaven-wide!  which  we  descried 

Between  their  words  and  deeds; 

For  He  whose  sacred  name  they  bear 

Was  known  as  the  Prince  of  Peace, 

And  what  He  taught,  in  practice  wrought, 

Would  cause  all  wars  to  cease. 

They  say  with  truth  that  we  used  to  fight 
For  our  Lords  on  sea  and  coast, 
But  our  soldiers  then  were  as  one  to  ten, 
Not  a  permanent  armored  host! 


92  JAPAN,— OLD    AND   NEW 

Nor  do  we  claim  to  obey  the  God 
They  worship  in  the  West; 
But,  since  they  do,  is  it  not  true 
That  they  mock  at  His  first  behest? 


His  words  were  "  Love  your  enemies !  " 

And  never  a  hostile  act 

To  friend  or  foe  should  Christian  show, 

By  whomsoever  attacked; 

But  they  are  precisely  the  best  prepared 

To  attack  and  to  resist; 

And  the  Kaiser  who  prays  is  the  Kaiser  who  says,- 

"  Go !     Strike  with  the  mailed  fist !  " 


We  look  abroad,  and  everywhere 

The  spirit  of  Christ  is  dead; 

Men  call  Him  Lord,  but  they  draw  the  sword 

In  defiance  of  what  He  said ; 

And  the  haughty,  white-skinned  Christian  race 

Hates  men  of  a  different  hue, 

And  robs  and  slays  in  a  thousand  ways, 

With  excuses  ever  new. 

In  the  North  and  South,  in  the  East  and  West 
In  vain  do  the  natives  plead; 
By  the  Congo's  waves  are  countless  graves, 
Where  the  Paleface  gluts  his  greed; 


JAPAN,— OLD   AND    NEW  93 

And  China's  fate  looms  dark  and  grim, 
As  its  people  note  the  means 
That  Christians  take,  when  gold's  at  stake, 
From  the  Rand  to  the  Philippines. 


We  have  had  to  choose  between  the  rule 
Of  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount 
And  the  brutal  fact  that  their  nations  act 
With  an  eye  to  their  bank-account! 
And  we  see  that  the  only  way  to  shun 
The  clutch  of  the  Western  Powers 
Is  to  learn  to  kill  with  Christian  skill, 
And  to  make  their  weapons  ours. 

For  we  will  not,  like  the  others,  bend 
Our  necks  to  the  white  man's  yoke; 
And  poor  Japan,  to  her  latest  man, 
Will  answer  stroke  with  stroke; 
So  I  watch  to-night  a  solemn  sight 
On  the  breast  of  the  moonlit  bay, 
As  our  gallant  host  for  a  hostile  coast 
Prepares  to  sail  away. 

It  is  life  or  death  for  my  native  land, 
And  I  fear  I  may  never  see 
Those  ships  again,  with  their  noble  men, 
Return  from  victory; 


94  JAPAN,— OLD    AND    NEW 

And  well  I  know  in  my  heart  of  hearts, 
As  the  past  I  sadly  scan, 
That  we  are  worse,  and  it  was  a  curse 
That  foreigners  brought  Japan. 

1904, 


THE    UNFORGOTTEN    HEROES 

[The  great  temple  at  Miyagi  in  Japan  was  recently  the  scene 
of  grand  funeral  observances  for  the  horses  slain  in  the  late  war 
with  Russia,  the  Buddhist  priests  reading  prayers  and  conducting 
services  of  a  most  solemn  character.] 


Hark!  how  the  Orient's  bells  are  proclaiming 
Obsequies  strange  to  the  shrines  of  the  west — 

Services  Christendom's  cruelties  shaming — 
Taught  by  the  merciful,  Buddha  the  blest. 

Peace  on  Manchuria's  plains  has  descended; 

Tall  waves  the  grass  where  the  chivalrous  bled; 
Murder  and  massacre  finally  ended, 

Sadly  the  living  remember  their  dead. 

Requiem  masses  and  prayers  without  number 
Plead  for  the  souls  of  the  Muscovite  brave, 

While  of  the  Japanese,  wrapt  in  death's  slumber, 
Tender  memorials  honor  each  grave. 

But  in  Gautama's  compassionate  teaching 
Love  is  not  limited  merely  to  man ; 


96          THE   UNFORGOTTEN   HEROES 

Kindness  to  animals  formed  in  his  preaching 
No  less  a  part  of  his  merciful  plan. 

Hence  by  the  Buddhists,  in  counting  the  corses 
Heaping  with  horror  the  death-trampled  plain, 

Not  unremembered  are  thousands  of  horses, 
Left  unattended  to  die  with  the  slain. 

What  did  war  seem  to  these  poor,  driven  cattle  ? 

What  was  their  part  in  the  horrible  fray 
Save  to  be  shot  in  the  fury  of  battle, 

Or  from  exhaustion  to  fall  by  the  way  ? 

Dragging  huge  guns  over  rocks  and  through  mire, 
Trembling  with  weakness,  yet  straining  each  nerve, 

Fated  at  last  in  despair  to  expire, 

Uncomprehending,  yet  willing  to  serve! 

Nothing  to  them  were  the  hopes  of  a  nation; 

"  Czar  "  and  "  Mikado  "  were  meaningless  sounds; 
None  of  the  patriot's  deep  inspiration 

Softened  the  agony  caused  by  their  wounds. 

Not  for  these  martyrs  the  skill  of  physician, 
Ether  for  anguish  or  lint  for  a  wound ; 

Theirs  but  to  lie  in  their  crippled  condition, 
Thirsting  and  starving  on  shelterless  ground. 


THE    UNFORGOTTEN   HEROES  97 

Hail  to  these  quadrupeds,  dead  without  glory! 

Honor  to  him  who  their  valor  reveres ! 
Spare  to  these  heroes,  unmentioned  in  story, 

Something  of  sympathy,  something  of  tears. 


A  WINTER'S  DAY 

Into  my  garden  sweet  and  fair 
The  noonday  sun  in  splendor  shines, 
Melting  the  frost  from  the  wintry  air, 
Warming  the  trellis  of  leafless  vines. 


Basking  there  in  the  genial  heat, 
South  of  my  sheltering  vineyard  wall, 
I  stroll  and  dream  in  my  lov'd  retreat, 
The  smile  of  the  sun-god  over  all. 


Alas !  too  early  a  shadow  dark, 
Cast  by  the  neighboring  mountain's  crest, 
Stealthily  creeps  across  the  park, 
Bringing  a  chill  from  the  sombre  west. 


Little  by  little  my  sunlit  space 
Shrinks  to  a  narrowing  path  of  light  ; 
Further  and  further  with  dread  I  trace 
The  sure  advance  of  approaching  night. 


A   WINTER'S   DAY  99 

Soon  will  arrive  its  twilight  pall ; 
Then,  as  the  potent  change  is  felt, 
The  fountain's  drops  will  cease  to  fall 
And  feathery  films  refuse  to  melt. 


But  still  in  the  solar  warmth  I  wait, 

The  hand  of  my  lov'd  one  clasped  in  mine ; 

Is  that  a  tear  ?    It  is  growing  late, 

And  she  asks  how  long  the  sun  will  shine. 


ON  THE  PROMENADE 

O  joyous  idler  in  the  sun, 

In  pity  slacken  here  thy  pace! 

A  lad,  whose  course  is  nearly  run, 

Is  watching  thee  with  wistful  face. 

The  glow  of  health  upon  thy  cheek, 
The  youthful  ardor  in  thine  eye, 
Thy  buoyant  step, — all  plainly  speak 
To  the  frail  stranger,  soon  to  die. 

Thou  art  to  him  the  vision  fair 
Of  all  he  once  had  hoped  to  be ; 
What  wonder,  then,  that  in  despair 
His  longing  glances  follow  thee  ? 

Let  not  the  gulf  too  deep  appear 
Between  thy  fortune  and  his  own! 
Thou  didst  not  see  that  falling  tear, 
Nor  hear  his  low,  half-stifled  moan. 

The  pang  of  age  compared  with  youth, 
Or  hunger  with  the  spendthrift's  wealth, 


ON   THE    PROMENADE  101 

Gnaws  not  with  such  a  cruel  tooth 
As  that  of  pain  confronting  health. 

Yet  must  the  strong  ship  breast  the  wave, 

The  wreck  lie  rotting  on  the  shore ; 

O  hopes  that  perish  in  the  grave ! 

O  youthful  dreams  that  come  no  more ! 


SOLITUDE 

Had  I  but  lived  when  music-loving  Pan 
Breathed  on  his  flute  amid  the  whispering  reeds, 
When  through  Arcadian  groves  the  dryads  ran, 
And, — voicing  gracefully  man's  earlier  creeds — , 
A  host  of  snow-white  forms,  divinely  fair, 
Gleamed  in  the  sun  and  led  men's  thoughts  to  prayer, 


I  would  have  sought  some  beautiful  retreat, 

Remote  from  cities  and  the  din  of  men, — 

Some  tranquil  shore  where  lake  and  forest  meet 

By  limpid  stream  or  flower-lit,  sylvan  glen, 

And  would  have  reared,  where  none  could  e'er  intrude, 

A  shrine  to  thee,  O  precious  Solitude ! 


How  hath  a  heedless  world  neglected  thee, 
Thou  coy  divinity,  too  shy  and  proud 
To  sue  for  followers  from  those  who  see 
Attraction  merely  in  the  strenuous  crowd ! 
For  only  those  can  know  thee,  as  thou  art, 
Who  are  content  to  study  thee  ....  apart. 


SOLITUDE  103 


No  rapt  enthusiast,  or  mystic  sage, 
No  Asian  founder  of  a  faith  divine, 
No  bard,  or  writer  of  inspired  page 
Hath  ever  failed  to  worship  at  thy  shrine, 
O  Nourisher  of  steadfast  self-control, 
Of  noble  thoughts,  of  loftiness  of  soul! 


Yet  no  continuous  homage  dost  thou  crave, 

No  anchorite's  seclusion  wouldst  thou  ask, 

Thou  lov'st  no  misanthrope  or  sullen  slave, 

But  only  those  who,  faithful  to  life's  task, 

Must  yet  at  times  look  upward  from  the  clod, 

And  seek  through  thee  acquaintanceship  with  God. 


OUT  OF  THE  RANKS 

From  the  bitter  fight  I  have  made  my  way 
To  the  peaceful  crest  of  a  lonely  hill, 
But  the  noise  and  heat  of  the  deadly  fray 
And  the  smart  of  wounds  are  with  me  still. 


No  recreant  I  to  a  noble  cause, 
Nor  traitor  base  to  a  leader  bold ; 
'Twas  a  fight  where  he  won  most  applause 
Who  captured  most  of  his  neighbor's  gold ; 


Where  the  wounded  crawled  away  to  die, 
Or,  hopeless,  ate  their  bread  with  tears, 
And  the  only  cries  that  rent  the  sky 
Were  the  shouts  of  frenzied  financiers. 


Alas  for  the  prematurely  gray, 

Who  struggle  there  through  joyless  lives 

To  win  the  means  of  more  display 

For  thankless  children,  thoughtless  wives! 


OUT   OF   THE    RANKS  105 

Alas  for  those  whose  spirits  yearn 
For  leisure,  books,  and  sunlit  fields, 
Who  yet  can  never  pause  to  learn 
The  joy  that  a  life  of  culture  yields ! 


Still  sway  the  mad  crowds  to  and  fro ! 

I  hear  their  groans  and  panting  breath, 

The  hideous  impacts,  blow  on  blow, 

The  moans  of  those  who  are  crushed  to  death! 


None  stoop  to  lift  up  those  who  fall ; 
A  thousand  leap  for  a  vacant  place, 
Thrust  weaker  thousands  to  the  wall, 
And  trample  many  an  upturned  face ! 


But  I,  however  the  fight  may  go, 
Have  turned  my  back  on  the  sordid  fray, 
And  facing  the  tranquil  sunset-glow, 
I  hope  for  the  dawn  of  a  better  day. 


AUTONOMY 

Stand  forth,  my  soul,  and  take  thine  own ! 
Though  all  should  blame  thee,  have  no  fear! 
Self-poised  and  steadfast,  dare  alone 
Thy  self-elected  course  to  steer. 

Before  thee  lies  the  open  sea; 
God-given  was  thy  native  shore; 
The  route  that  seemeth  best  to  thee 
Select,  and  hesitate  no  more! 

For  he  who  lives  the  timorous  slave 
Of  social  plaudits  or  disdain, 
Drags  feebly  to  a  nameless  grave 
A  craven's  ever-lengthening  chain. 

Are  thy  plans  noble,  just,  and  fair? 
Pursue  them  bravely  to  the  end, 
Nor  pause  to  question  or  to  care 
What  says  thy  foe,  or  what  thy  friend. 

Succeed,  and  thou  shalt  surely  find 
That  those  who  longed  to  see  thee  fail, 


AUTONOMY  107 

And,  lingering  hopelessly  behind, 
Spat  venom  on  thine  upward  trail, 

Shall  run  to  reach  thee  on  thy  path, 
To  grasp-  thy  hand  and  say  "  'Twas  well  " ; 
Or,  distant,  gnaw  their  lips  in  wrath, 
Their  envious  hearts  a  living  hell. 

Forever,  flint-like,  set  thy  face 
Against  the  loss  of  self-control; 
Compel  the  world  to  keep  its  place; 
Be  thou  the  captain  of  thy  soul ! 


ORIENT  TO  OCCIDENT,    1906 

You  thought  me  sunk  in  lethargy,  too  deeply  drugged 

with  sleep 
To  notice  how  your  armored  fleets  kept  creeping  o'er 

the  deep, 

Too  indolent  to  organize,  too  feeble  to  resist, 
Too  timid  to  return  the  blow  of  Europe's  mailed  fist ; 
And  Asia's  conquest  seemed  to  you  a  matter  of  such 

ease 
That  all  your  kings  knew  perfectly  the  part  which 

each  would  seize. 
Of  such  a  "  sluggish,  inert  mass  "  why  should  you  be 

afraid  ? 

You  wanted  ports  and  provinces  for  purposes  of  trade, 
And  monster  "spheres  of  influence",  whose  wealth 

could  be  controlled 
And   plundered   by   your   Governments   to   fill    their 

vaults  with  gold; 
Hence,  since  it  seemed  so  probable  that  none  of  us 

would  fight, 
Why  should  you  even  hesitate  to  prove  that  Might 

makes  Right? 


ORIENT   TO    OCCIDENT,    1906          109 

And  yet  perhaps  it  had  been  well,  before  you  formed 

your  plan, 

To  study  Asia's  history  from  Persia  to  Japan; 
For  though  the  sleeping  Orient,  like  grain  before  the 

blast, 
May  bow  its  head,  it  rights  itself  when  once  the  storm 

is  past. 

How  often  has  the  Occident  invaded  our  domains 
And   boasted   of   its   victories!      Yet   of   them   what 

remains  ? 
Seems   India   exceptional?     Fools,   judge   not   by   a 

day! 

The  horologe  of  centuries  moves  slowly  in  Cathay. 
The  brilliant  son  of  Macedon  saw,  crushed  and  pale 

with  fear, 
The  vanquished  East  from   Babylon   to   Egypt  and 

Cashmere ; 
But  though  the  conquered  Orient  lay  helpless,  as  his 

slave, 
Of   Alexander's    influence    how    much    survived    his 

grave  ? 
Of  Rome's  prodigious  armaments,  to  Asian  conquests 

led, 

Where  is  there  now  a  souvenir  save  relics  of  the  dead  ? 
And  of  the  vast  Crusading  hosts,  which  in  their  mad- 
ness rose 
And  hurled  themselves  repeatedly  upon  their  Moslem 

foes, — 


no         ORIENT  TO    OCCIDENT,    1906 

What  is  to-day  the  net  result  ?    A  thousand  years  have 

passed, 
But  none   of  all  their  vaunted   gains   proved   great 

enough  to  last; 
The   Saviour's  tomb,  Jerusalem,  and  all  the  sacred 

lands 
Connected  with  the  Christian  faith  are  still  in  Asian 

hands ! 


We  needed  rude  awakening  to  rouse  us  from  our  sloth ; 
It  came  among  our  northern  isles,  whose  heroes,  noth- 
ing loth, 
Unbarred  their  ports  to  modern  fleets,  their  ancient 

life  forswore, 
And  learned  from  greedy  foreigners  the  Christians' 

art  of  war. 
Behold!  the  world  in  fifty  years  is  breathless  with 

surprise, 
And   Europe's  greatest  Government  has   sought   us 

for  allies! 

That  little  section  of  our  mass  aroused  itself,  and  lo! 
Your  largest  Occidental  Power  has  reeled  beneath  the 

blow. 
And  while  our  living  troops  receive  men's  rapturous 

acclaim, 
Our  fallen  heroes  have  attained  the  Pantheon  of  fame. 


ORIENT  TO   OCCIDENT,    1906          in 

Yet  think  not  we  deceive  ourselves;  you  praise,  but 

really  dread 

The  valour  of  the  Orient,  if  this  awakening  spread ; 
Behind  this  movement  of  the  East  you  think  you  hear 

the  low, 
Long  murmur  of  the  Asians, — "  The  foreigner  must 

go"! 
What  wonder  that  we  hate  you  all?    You  look  on  us 

to-day 
As  lions  look  on  antelopes, — their  heaven-appointed 

prey; 
You  know  you  have  no  lawful  right  to  lands  that 

you  possess; 
You  gained  them  all  through  violence,  or  lying  and 

finesse  ; 
Your  cursed  opium  alone,  despite  our  prayers  and 

tears, 
Has  ruined  millions  of  our  race  for  more  than  two 

score  years, 
And  when  we  rose  indignantly  to  right  that  bitter 

wrong, 
Your  heavy  guns  bombarded  us,  and  you  annexed .... 

Hong  Kong! 
You   force   yourselves   on   us,   and   ask   concessions, 

favors,  mines, 
Protection  for  your  mission  schools,  and  grants  of 

railway  lines, 


ii2         ORIENT   TO   OCCIDENT,    1906 

But  when  we  cross  the  seas  to  you,   an  entry  you 

refuse, 
And  curse,  illtreat,  and  harry  us  with  loathing  and 

abuse. 

Yet  now  that  we  retaliate,  you  seem  at  last  afraid, 
And  justice  seems  obtainable   since   ....   boycotting 

your  trade! 

Japan  has  shown  the  only  way  of  keeping  for  our  own 
The  fertile  fields  which  rightfully  belong  to  us  alone; 
We  did  not  wish  to  arm  ourselves,  and  fighting  we 

abhor, 
But  self-protection  forces  us  to  learn  and  practise  war. 


Hence,  if  assailed,  we  shall  not  shun  a  struggle  with 

the  West; 
Not  bent  on  conquest,  like  yourselves,  but,  rising  to 

the  test 
Of  "  Asia  for  the  Asians ",  defend  our  threatened 

farms 

By  sending  to  encounter  you  a  million  men  in  arms. 
You  think  yourselves  invincible?     Learn  something 

from  Japan, 
The  fever  of  whose  chivalry  now  spreads  from  man 

to  man, 

Encouraging  the  Orient  to  hasten  on  the  day 
When   all    enlightened   Asians    shall    cry    "  Enough ! 

Away! 


ORIENT  TO   OCCIDENT,    1906         113 

Go  exploit  helpless  Africa,  where  you  have  shamed 

the  beast, 
But  understand,  your  cruel  day  is  over  in  the  East !  " 

You  still  have  many  things  to  learn,  base  worshippers 

of  gold ; 
When  you  were  wild  barbarians,  our  Governments 

were  old! 
Your  self-conceit  and  arrogance  we  therefore  laugh 

to  scorn; 
We   had   our  laws  millenniums   before   your  courts 

were  born. 

You  talk  by  electricity,  you  ride  on  wings  of  steam, 
You  thunder  with  machinery, — and  these  you  proudly 

deem 
The  grandest  triumphs  of  the  race,  forgetting  that 

mere  speed 
In  transference  of  men  and  things  is  less  than  one 

great  deed. 

You  treat  us  condescendingly,  as  if  our  gifts  were 

small, 

But  do  you  think  Almighty  God  has  dowered  you 

with  all  ? 

Earth's  greatest  continent  is  ours;  her  highest  moun- 
tains rise 

In  unapproached  sublimity  beneath  our  starry  skies ; 


ii4          ORIENT  TO    OCCIDENT,    1906 

Ours,  too,  the  cradle  of  the  race ;  and  at  our  Buddha's 

shrine 

Unequalled  numbers  of  mankind  adore  him  as  divine. 
How  dare  you  speak  of  Asian  thought  with  pity  or  a 

sneer, 

When  practically  all  you  know  originated  here? 
What  had  you  been,  if  our  ideals,  in  art  and  faith 

expressed, 
Had  not  come  down  through  Greece  and   Rome  to 

civilize  your  West? 
The  great  religions  of  the  world  are   all   of  Asian 

birth, 
And  thence  went  forth  resistlessly  to  dominate  the 

earth. 
One  out  of  six  we  gave  to  you;  you  have  professed 

its  creeds, 

But  what  a  sorry  travesty  you  make  of  it  in  deeds ! 
The   Christ   taught   love   to   enemies;   His   followers 

to-day 
Have  trained  the  whole  male  Christian  world  their 

fellow  men  to  slay! 
The  very  Bible  that  you  prize  was  writ  by  Asian 

hands ; 
Your   prophets,   saints,    and   patriarchs   were   all    of 

Eastern  lands; 
The  Son  of  God,  as  you  believe,  was  born  a  humble 

Jew; 
The  Virgin  Mother  equally  no  other  parents  knew; 


ORIENT   TO    OCCIDENT,    1906          115 

Yet  you  have  robbed  and  tortured  Jews,  and  mur- 
dered them  at  will 

Through  eighteen  Christian  centuries, — are  killing 

thousands  still! 


The  "  Star  of  Empire,"  as  you  claim,  has  "  westward  " 

made  its  way; 
But  what  if  now  in  Eastern  skies  it  heralds  a  new 

day? 
You  fondly  dreamed  its  brilliant  course  had  ended 

there  with  you, 
But  on  it  moves,  old  lands  to  greet,  and  belt  the  globe 

anew! 
Its  kindling  rays  revivify  our  nations,  which  have 

slept 
While  round  the  world  our  influence  through  you  has 

slowly  crept. 

The  coming  century's  mighty  deeds  lie  not  at  Eu- 
rope's doors; 
A  grander  stage  awaits  mankind, — the  vast  Pacific's 

shores ; 

And  we  not  only  skirt  that  sea  from  Tokio  to  Saigon, 
Our  coastline  fronts  the  western  world  from  Syria  to 

Ceylon ! 

Again  shall  we  supply  to  you  the  part  of  life  you  need; 
Again   your   slaves    of   strenuous    toil    shall    live    at 

slower  speed; 


n6         ORIENT   TO    OCCIDENT,    1906 

Once  more,  as  pilgrims  to  a  shrine,  your  chiefs  shall 

come  to  me, 

And  learn  of  my  philosophy,  as  children  at  my  knee. 
You  cannot  cut  me  from  your  past,  nor  cancel  what 

you  owe 

For  all  my  sages  gave  to  you  two  thousand  years  ago ; 
For  after  twenty  centuries  you  think,  and  speak,  and 

pray 

Still  much  as  I  instructed  you  in  Syria  and  Cathay. 
Keep  you,  then,  the  material,  I  hold  the  mental,  realm ; 
For  you  the  ship's  machinery,   for  me  the  guiding 

helm! 


IN    A    COLUMBARIUM 

The  autumn  sun  still  bravely  streams 

Along  the  tomb-girt  Appian  Way, 

And  warms  the  heart  of  one  who  dreams 

Of  all  its  splendor  on  the  day 

When  Scipio  triumphed,  bringing  home 

The  spoils  of  Africa  to  Rome. 


On  this  same  road  the  conqueror  came, 
Called  "  Africanus,  the  Divine  " 
By  thousands  who  adored  his  fame, 
And  proudly  watched  the  endless  line 
Of  Punic  captives  in  his  train, 
And  trophies,  won  on  Zama's  plain. 


To-day  the  vast  Campagna  rolls 

In  stately  grandeur  to  the  sea, 

But  where  are  now  the  countless  souls 

Whose  dwelling  place  this  used  to  be, 

When  all  its  space  to  Ostia's  gate 

Lay  peopled  and  inviolate? 


n8  IN   A    COLUMBARIUM 

Ask  of  the  Claudian  arches  gray 

Which  stride  toward  Rome  in  broken  lines ; 

Ask  of  the  lizards  at  their  play 

On  relics  of  the  Antonines; 

Ask  of  the  fever-blighted  shore, 

Where  Roman  galleys  ride  no  more! 

Yet  some  poor  traces  still  remain 
Of  those  who  here  have  lived  and  died; 
For  underneath  this  solemn  plain 
The  Christian  catacombs  still  hide, 
Enshrouded  in  sepulchral  gloom, 
The  martyrs'  labyrinthine  tomb. 

Moreover,  in  this  classic  soil, 
Where  sleeps  so  much  of  ancient  Rome, 
A  simple  peasant  at  his  toil 
Discovered  'neath  the  upturned  loam 
The  spot  to  which  I  now  have  come, — 
A  Roman  Columbarium. 

Down  through  its  modern,  open  door 

A  flood  of  mellow  sunshine  falls 

In  golden  waves  from  roof  to  floor, 

Revealing  in  its  moss-grown  walls 

The  "  dove-cotes  ",  where  one  still  discerns 

The  fragments  of  old  funeral  urns. 


IN    A   COLUMBARIUM  119 

One  vacant  niche,  whose  ampler  space 
Betokens  special  love  and  care, 
Contained  no  doubt  a  sculptured  face 
Above  the  hallowed  ashes  there ; 
While,  just  beneath,  faint  letters  spell 
A  faithful  woman's  fond  farewell. 


How  often  on  love's  winged  feet 

She  doubtless  sought  this  dear  recess, 

To  deck  with  floral  offerings  sweet 

Her  sepulchre  of  happiness, 

Whose  script,  despite  two  thousand  years, 

Preserves  the  memory  of  her  tears! 

Rome's  annals  hint  not  of  the  name 
Of  him  whose  dust  lay  treasured  here, 
But  could  the  fleeting  breath  of  fame 
Have  made  him  to  her  heart  more  dear? 
A  word  of  tenderness  outweighs 
In  woman's  soul  a  world  of  praise. 

What  though,  remote  from  pomp  and  state, 

At  Caesar's  court  he  could  not  shine  ? 

Less  blest  had  surely  been  his  fate 

Upon  the  lustful  Palatine ! 

And  mutual  love,  wherever  viewed, 

Is  life's  supreme  beatitude. 


120  IN   A   COLUMBARIUM 

Alas !  the  urn  no  longer  stands 
Within  the  little  alcove  dim; 
Gone  also  are  the  faithful  hands 
That  hung  sweet  roses  on  its  rim; 
And  vanished  even  is  the  bust 
Which  watched  above  the  sacred  dust. 


Yet  still  its  words  of  love  survive 
The  shocks  and  tragedies  of  time, 
And  bid  our  drooping  hearts  revive, 
Inculcating  the  faith  sublime 
That,  while  the  urn  in  ruin  lies, 
Love  soars  immortal  to  the  skies. 


THE    CAPTIVE 

I  opened  the  cage  of  my  pet  canary ; 
Timid,  it  faltered  a  moment  there, 
Then,  at  my  call,  became  less  wary, 
And  blithely  sprang  to  the  buoyant  air. 

Brief  was  its  dream  of  freedom's  rapture ; 
'A  window  barred  its  sunward  flight; 
It  beat  its  wings  in  fear  of  capture, 
But  found  no  way  to  the  world  of  light.    . 

Out  in  the  park  two  birds  were  mating, 
Building  together  their  tiny  nest; 
Keenly  the  captive  watched  them,  waiting, 
Pressing  the  glass  with  its  throbbing  breast. 

Leaving  at  length  the  window-casing, 
Lighting  by  chance  on  a  neighboring  shelf, 
It  stood  before  a  mirror,  facing 
The  pretty  form  of  its  own  sweet  self. 

Falling  in  love  with  its  own  reflection, 
Thinking  it  always  another  bird, 


122  THE    CAPTIVE 

Bravely  it  tried  to  win  affection, 
Warbling  tones  I  had  never  heard. 

Hopeless  alas !  its  tender  wooing, 
Vainly  it  trilled  its  sweetest  note, 
Coldly  received  was  its  ardent  sueing, 
Silent  the  mirrored  songster's  throat. 

Wearied  at  last,  it  flew  off  sadly, 
Back  to  the  cage's  open  door, 
Back  to  the  home  it  left  so  gladly 
Only  a  little  hour  before. 


Dead  are  the  lovers  so  fondly  mated! 
Gone  is  their  nest ;  it  was  blown  away ! 
But  safe  in  the  narrow  cage  it  hated 
The  captive  sings  on  its  perch  to-day. 


WEARINESS 

Snowy  sails,  silvery  sails, 
Gleaming  in  the  sun, 
Leaving  scores  of  jewelled  trails 
In  the  course  you  run, 


On  your  white  wings  bear  away 
All  my  care  and  pain; 
I  would  for  at  least  to-day 
Be  a  child  again. 


Just  to  thrill  with  youthful  fire, 
Kindling  heart  and  brain, 
Just  to  know  the  old  desire 
Lofty  heights  to  gain ; 


Just  to  hold  the  simple  faith 
Into  which  I  grew, 
When  my  God  was  not  a  wraith, 
And  all  men  were  true ! 


124  WEARINESS 

Shadowed  sails,  clouded  sails, 
Life  hath  made  me  know 
That  you  leave  no  jewelled  trails, 
Proudly  though  you  go; 

Drops  that  floods  of  diamonds  seem 
Are  but  dazzling  spray, 
Fleeting  as  a  happy  dream, 
Swift  to  fade  away. 

Distant  sails,  waning  sails, 
Waft  me  to  some  shore 
Where  corroding  care  prevails 
Never,  nevermore! 

Where  the  flotsam  of  the  deep 
Finds  its  wanderings  cease, 
And  the  shipwrecked  sink  to  sleep 
On  the  strand  of  peace. 


A  MAY  MONODY 

Beside  my  opened  window  pane, 
Each  morning  in  this  month  of  May 
A  blackbird  sings  in  dulcet  strain 
Two  liquid  notes,  which  seem  to  say 
"  Come  again !     Come  again !  " 

Alike  in  sunshine  and  in  rain, 
Now  loud  and  clear,  now  soft  and  low, 
He  warbles  forth  the  same  refrain, 
Which  haunts  me  with  its  hint  of  woe, — 
"  Come  again !     Come  again !  " 

What  bird,  whose  absence  gives  him  pain, 
Doth  he  thus  tenderly  recall  ? 
What  longed-for  joy  would  he  regain 
By  those  two  words  which  rise  and  fall, — 
"  Come  again !     Come  again !  " 

Sometimes,  when  I  too  long  have  lain 
And  listened  to  his  plaintive  air, 


126  A   MAY   MONODY 

An  impulse  I  cannot  restrain 
Hath  moved  me  too  to  breathe  that  prayer, — 
"  Come  again !     Come  again !  " 

O  vanished  youth,  when  faith  was  plain, 
When  hopes  were  high,  and  manhood's  years 
Showed  dazzling  summits  to  attain; 
O  days,  ere  eyes  grew  dim  with  tears, — 
"  Come  again !     Come  again !  " 

O  friends,  whose  memory  leaves  no  stain, 
O  dearly  loved  and  early  lost ! 
Do  you  your  love  for  me  retain 
Beyond  the  silent  sea  you  crossed? 
"  Come  again !     Come  again !  " 

Alas!  sweet  bird,  all  life  moves  on; 
The  seed  becomes  the  ripened  grain, 
And  what  is  past  is  gone,  is  gone! 
Cease  calling,  therefore, — 'tis  in  vain — , 
"  Come  again !    Come  again !  " 


MY  LOST   FRIENDS 

One  by  one  they  have  slipped  from  Earth, 
And  vanished  into  the  depths  of  space, 
And  I,  beside  my  lonely  hearth, 
Find  none  to  take  their  place. 

Never  a  word  of  fond  farewell 

Fell  from  their  lips  ere  they  were  gone ; 

Never  a  hint  since  then  to  tell 

If  after  night  came  dawn! 

Latest  of  all  to  thus  depart, 
Still  is  thy  hand-clasp  warm  in  mine; 
Wilt  thou  not  tell  me  where  thou  art? 
Canst  thou  impart  no  sign? 

Wild  are  the  winds  above  thy  grave ; 
Cold  is  the  form  I  loved  so  well; 
But  what  to  thee  are  storms  that  rave, 
Or  the  snow  that  last  night  fell? 

Out  in  the  awful  void  of  night, 
Numberless  suns  and  planets  roll; 


128  MY   LOST   FRIENDS 

Has  one  of  all  those  isles  of  light 
Received  thy  homeless  soul? 

Mute  is  the  sky  as  an  empty  tomb; 
Trackless  the  path,  and  all  unknown; 
What  means  this  journey  through  its  gloom, 
Which  each  must  make  alone? 

Vain  is  the  task;  I  strive  no  more 
To  learn  the  secret  of  their  fate ; 
Till  sounds  for  me  the  muffled  oar, 
I  can  but  hope  and  wait. 

But  well  I  know  they  have  gone  from  me 
Into  the  silent  depths  of  space, 
Across  a  vast,  uncharted  sea, 
Whose  shores  I  cannot  trace. 


TO    SLEEP   AND    TO    FORGET 

To  sleep  and  to  forget, — O  blessed  guerdon! 
The  day  is  waning,  and  the  night  draws  near ; 
My  failing  heart  grows  weary  of  its  burden ; 
Why  therefore  should  I  hesitate  or  fear 
To  sleep  and  to  forget? 

Bright  are  my  skies  with  transient  gleams  of  gladness, 
Sweet  is  the  breath  of  many  a  summer  sea; 
Yet,  under  all,  a  haunting  note  of  sadness 
Forever  lures  me  in  its  minor  key 
To  sleep  and  to  forget. 

Of  petty  souls  whose  joy  is  defamation, 
Of  malice,  envy,  cruelty,  and  greed 
Each  day  supplies  its  sickening  revelation, 
And  makes  imperative  my  spirit's  need 
To  sleep  and  to  forget. 

Let  others  bravely  plan  for  death's  to-morrow, 
And  crave  fresh  progress  toward  a  higher  goal ! 
Appalled  by  Earth's  long  tragedy  of  sorrow, 
I  humbly  ask  one  favor  for  my  soul, 

When  its  life's  sun  is  set, — 

To  sleep  and  to  forget. 


IN   SILENCE 

She  sees  our  faces  bright  and  gay, 
Our  moving  lips,  our  laughing  eyes, 
But  scarce  a  word  of  what  we  say 
Can  pass  the  zone  that  round  her  lies ; — 

A  zone  of  stillness, — strange,  profound, 
Invisible  to  mortal  eye, 
Upon  whose  verge  the  waves  of  sound 
In  muffled  murmurs  break  and  die. 

Across  that  silent  void  she  strains 
To  catch  at  least  some  winged  word, 
And,  though  she  fails,  still  smiles  and  feigns 
The  poor  pretence  of  having  heard. 

That  smile !    Its  pathos  wrings  the  heart 
Of  many  a  friend,  who  yet  conceals 
The  tears  that  from  his  eyelids  start, 
The  grief  and  pity  that  he  feels. 

And  she,  aware  of  our  distress, 
And  sadly  conscious  of  her  own, 


IN   SILENCE  131 

Still  bravely  speaks,  nor  dares  confess 
That  our  real  meaning  is  unknown. 

What  rapture,  when  the  closing  door 
Shuts  out  the  world  and  gives  release, 
And  on  her  quivering  nerves  once  more 
Descends  the  benison  of  peace ! 

No  longer  forced  to  dimly  read 

Men's  meanings  from  their  lips  and  looks, 

Her  greatest  joy,  her  only  need 

The  sweet  companionship  of  books! 

Do  we  thus  ever  fully  know 

The  boon  of  leaving  far  behind 

The  world's  dull  tales  of  crime  and  woe, 

The  gossip  of  its  vacant  mind  ? 

What  if  her  loss  be  really  gain, 
That  zone  of  silence  a  defence, 
A  compensation  for  her  pain, 
A  quickening  of  her  psychic  sense  ? 

Perhaps  when  fall  at  last  away 

The  chains  which  bind  her  spirit  here, 

A  voice  divine  will  gently  say 

In  tones  which  reach  alone  her  ear, — 


132  IN   SILENCE 

"  While  others  in  that  world  of  sin 
Heard  evil  things,  to  thee  unknown, 
Apart  from  that  defiling  din 
Thy  spirit  grew,  in  strength,  alone. 

"  They  must  through  other  lives  return 
To  slowly  earn  thy  strength  of  soul; 
Through  suffering  only  couldst  thou  learn 
The  virtue  that  hath  made  thee  whole." 


AT  HOCHFINSTERMUNZ 

Once  more  between  its  walls  of  pines 
I  see  the  long  ravine  expand 
To  where  the  ice-world's  crystal  lines 
Define  the  realm  of  Switzerland. 

Once  more,  a  thousand  feet  below, 
I  watch  the  river's  silver  sheen, 
As,  foaming  in  its  fettered  flow, 
It  rushes  from  the  Engadine. 

Forever  young,  forever  old, 
This  gorge,  where  stream  with  forest  blends, 
These  glittering  peaks,  these  glaciers  cold,— 
Are  all  to  me  familiar  friends. 

I  know,  alas,  their  towering  forms 
Of  unresponsive  rocks  and  snow 
Are  heartless  as  their  wintry  storms, 
And  heed  not  if  I  come  or  go ; 

Yet  none  the  less  I  love  to  trace 
Their  stainless  crests  along  the  sky, 


134  AT   HOCHFINSTERMUNZ 

And,  as  I  greet  each  well-known  face, 
Each  seems  in  turn  to  make  reply. 


So  potent  is  the  subtle  spell 
That  clothes  such  masses  with  a  mind; 
So  strong  the  instincts  which  impel 
Their  lover  answering  love  to  find! 

What  if  in  truth  there  really  be 
A  soul  within  them  to  adore ; 
Some  half-revealed  Divinity, 
Whose  presence  haunts  us  evermore? 

Some  Power,  to  read  our  hearts,  and  know 
How  this  wild  beauty  moves  our  tears ; 
Some  God  that,  as  our  spirits  grow, 
Shall  be  discerned  in  after  years  ? 

Instinctively  did  earlier  man 
See  fauns  and  dryads  in  the  trees, 
And  find  in  universal  Pan 
The  soul  of  Nature's  mysteries. 


All  is  divine, — the  bird  that  sings, 

The  flowers  that  bloom,  the  waves  that  roll; 


AT   HOCHFINSTERMUNZ  135 

One  Spirit  quickens  men  and  things, 
And  stirs  alike  the  sun  and  soul. 

Great  Nature's  God!  however  styled, 
I  love  thee,  and  upon  thy  breast 
Would  gladly  lie, — a  grateful  child, 
And,  dying,  trust  thee  for  the  rest. 


DISCOURAGEMENT 

"  Forward,  comrades,  ever  forward  " ! 
Shout  the  leaders  in  the  fight ; 
"  Scale  the  ramparts !     Plant  the  standard 
On  the  citadel  of  light! 

"  Break  the  chains  of  superstition ! 
Crush  corruption!    Free  the  slave! 
Plant  the  flowers  of  love  and  mercy 
On  the  past's  ensanguined  grave ! 

"  Toward  the  strongholds  of  oppression 
Lead  again  the  hope  forlorn ! 
See!  the  night  is  disappearing; 
Lo !  the  coming  of  the  morn  " ! 


Bravely  said ;  yet  men  have  spoken 
Just  as  bravely  long  ago, 
When  the  hair  had  raven  blackness 
Which  is  now  as  white  as  snow; 


DISCOURAGEMENT  137 

And  alas !  how  many  thousands 
Have  responded  to  that  call, 
Whose  forgotten  corpses  moulder 
By  the  still  beleaguered  wall! 

Forms  have  changed  and  words  have  altered, 
But  the  things  remain  the  same; 
Still  doth  man  enslave  his  brother, — 
Always  master,  save  in  name. 

Still  are  God's  dumb  creatures  tortured, 

Racial  hatreds  never  cease, 

And  man's  greatest  self-delusion 

Is  the  shibboleth  of  "  Peace." 

Hence,  while  youth,  with  hope  and  courage, 
Loudly  vents  its  noble  rage; 
Age,  profoundly  disillusioned, 
Sad  and  silent  leaves  the  stage. 

Round  the  classic  Inland  Ocean, 
Where  the  Roman  world  held  sway, 
Storied  shores  are  iridescent 
With  the  splendor  of  decay; 

Persia,  Syria,  Egypt,  Athens, 

Proud  Byzantium,  Carthage,  Spain, — 


138  DISCOURAGEMENT 

In  their  mournful  desolation 
Hear  the  old  sea's  sad  refrain : — 


"  Rising,  falling,  waxing,  waning, 
Men  and  nations  come  and  go ; 
Reaching  glory,  then  declining, 
As  the  ebb  succeeds  the  flow. 

"  All  florescence  is  but  fleeting : 
Each  in  turn  enjoys  its  day, 
Hath  its  seed-time,  bud  and  flower, 
And  as  surely  fades  away. 

"  Growth,  maturity,  decadence, — 
Form  mankind's  unchanging  role, 
And  the  dead  past's  sombre  ruins 
Are  prophetic  of  the  whole." 

"  Nay,"  you  cry  in  bitter  protest, 
"  Shall  man  have  no  perfect  end, 
No  millennial  culmination, 
Toward  which  all  the  ages  tend  ? 

"  Must  all  races  prove  decadent  ? 
Shall  not  one  produce  in  time 
Perfect  types  of  men  and  women 
In  a  world  devoid  of  crime?  " 


DISCOURAGEMENT  1 39 

Scan  the  lurid  past,  and  tell  us 
On  what  ground  you  base  your  hopes! 
Does  an  endless  line  of  failures 
Warrant  brighter  horoscopes? 

Hath  not  every  race  and  nation 
Sunk  from  grandeur  to  decay? 
What  shall  save  us,  then,  from  ruin? 
Are  we  better  men  than  they? 

"  Great  inventors  ",  say  you  ?    Granted ; 
Such  material  gifts  are  ours; 
Every  age  hath  some  distinction, 
Every  race  its  special  powers. 

But  the  progress  is  not  lasting, 
And  the  special  powers  decline; 
Man's  advance  is  never  constant 
In  one  grand,  unbroken  line. 

Nor  is  ground,  once  lost,  recovered; 
Greece  and  Rome  are  not  replaced ! 
All  the  sites  of  pagan  learning 
Still  lie  desolate  and  waste. 


What  know  we, — except  in  physics — , 
That  the  ancients  did  not  know  ? 


DISCOURAGEMENT 

Are  we  wiser  than  the  sages 
Of  two  thousand  years  ago? 

More  devout  than  Hebrew  prophets? 
More  upright  than  Antonine? 
More  accomplished  than  the  Grecians, 
Or  than  Buddha  more  divine  ? 

And  if  such  men  could  not  hinder 
Fate's  resistless  rise  and  fall, 
How  can  we  expect  exemption 
From  the  common  lot  of  all? 

Let  us  frankly  face  the  prospect 
That  man's  progress  here  may  fail; 
That  the  race  may  never  triumph, 
But  again  descend  the  scale, 

Till  the  last  surviving  savage 
To  his  glacial  cave  retires, 
And  earth's  tragic  drama  closes, 
As  humanity  expires ! 

And  why  not?    All  weaker  species 
To  the  stronger  yield  their  place ; 
May  the  same  law  not  be  needed 
Through  the  boundless  realms  of  space? 


DISCOURAGEMENT  141 

By  whatever  beings  peopled, 
Worlds  that  fail  to  meet  the  test 
May  like  fruitless  blossoms  perish; 
God  will  winnow  out  the  best. 

Would  you  know  our  planet's  value  ? 
View  the  star-strewn  dome  of  night ! 
In  that  shoreless  sea  of  splendor 
What  is  one  faint  wave  of  light? 

Worlds  by  millions  are  revolving 
Through  that  vast,  unfathomed  main; 
Should  our  tiny  orb  make  shipwreck, 
Worlds  by  millions  would  remain ; 

Where  perchance  a  real  advancement 
May  prevail  from  pole  to  pole, 
Without  losses,  without  lapses, 
Toward  a  final,  perfect  goal. 

This  at  least  can  not  be  doubte'd, — 
That  our  globe  will  one  day  roll 
Cold  and  lifeless  thro'  its  orbit, 
Like  a  corpse  without  its  soul. 

Will  mankind  have  reached  perfection 
Ere  that  epoch  has  begun, 


142  DISCOURAGEMENT 

Or  grown  bestial,  as  the  heat-waves 
Issue  feebly  from  the  sun? 

None  may  know.    Through  blood-stained  cycles 
We  have  thus  far  made  our  way: 
Of  the  unknown  depths  beneath  us 
We  are  nothing  but  the  spray. 


MESALLIANCE 

With  gentle  manners,  winsome  face, 
And  forehead  fit  to  wear  a  crown, 
How  brilliant  might  have  been  her  place, 
Had  she  not  mated  with  a  clown, — 


A  Caliban  of  modern  date, 
Ill-dressed,  ill-shapen,  ill  at  ease, 
With  halting  speech  and  awkward  gait, 
And  manners  certain  to  displease! 


What  secret  motive  could  have  led 
This  charming  girl  her  life  to  stain 
By  condescending  thus  to  wed 
A  husband  whom  she  must  disdain? 


Far  worthier  men  had  vainly  sought 

To  win  her  for  herself  alone ; 

What  potent  spell  could  Love  have  wrought 

To  draw  her  to  a  tactless  drone  ? 


i44  MESALLIANCE 

A  palace  she  might  well  have  graced, 
And  led  its  functions  like  a  queen; 
Instead,  her  life  has  run  to  waste, 
The  wraith  of  what  it  might  have  been. 


For  boorishness  hath  brought  its  blight; 
Her  rare  accomplishments  are  marred, 
And  every  path,  with  promise  bright, 
By  stupid  tyranny  is  barred. 

Yet  still  she  bravely  moves  through  life, 
Ignoring  her  pathetic  fall ; — 
A  loveless,  broken-hearted  wife; 
Alas,  the  pity  of  it  all ! 


MY   BORES 

I  take  their  hands  with  placid  smile 
And  words  which  social  rules  enforce, 
Though  sadly  conscious  all  the  while 
Of  something  very  like  remorse, 
Because  beneath  the  mask  I  wear 
I  really  wish  they  were  not  there. 


Their  visits  I  at  heart  resent; 

The  half-read  volume  haunts  my  thought; 

The  urgent  note  remains  unsent; 

The  verse,  unfinished,  comes  to  naught ; 

And  all  because,  on  some  pretence, 

They  waste  their  time  at  my  expense. 


Yet  no  grim  misanthrope  am  I, 

Who  fears,  distrusts,  and  hates  his  race; 

I  merely  wish  them  to  pass  by, 

And  seek  some  other  lounging-place ; 

For,  frankly,  I  should  love  them  more 

A  little  further  from  my  door. 


MY   BORES 

In  vain  I  make  no  answering  calls ; 
They  blandly  smile  and  come  again! 
Nay,  even  bring  within  my  walls 
More  curious  strangers  in  their  train, 
"  Who  wished  so  much  your  home  to  see ! 
Why  do  they  never  think  of  me? 

The  few  I  want  I  can  invite; 

Hence  why  should  others  thus  intrude? 

How  dare  they  give  themselves  the  right, 

Unasked,  to  spoil  my  solitude? 

And  why  presume  I  care  to  know 

More  triflers  in  their  world  of  show? 

Their  idle  life,  on  pleasure  bent, 
Their  mania  for  some  silly  game, 
Their  hours  in  stupid  gossip  spent, — 
Would  give  me  self-contempt  and  shame; 
Between  us  is  no  common  ground 
On  which  a  comradeship  to  found. 

A  word  or  two  upon  the  street 
Suffice  me  with  the  most  of  men; 
Beyond  a  greeting,  when  we  meet. 
I  care  not  if  we  speak  again ; 
My  books  and  Nature's  charming  face 
Such  human  consorts  well  replace. 


MY   BORES  147 

Not  all,  indeed ;  for  who  but  yearns 
To  call  some  kindred  heart  his  own  ? 
Some  friend  to  whom  he  fondly  turns, 
And  with  whom  he  is  still  alone, 
Since  each,  while  absolutely  free, 
Respects  the  other's  privacy. 

To  such  his  pent-up  love  overflows; 
With  such  his  soul's  seclusion  ends; 
For  each  the  other's  nature  knows, 
And  every  motive  comprehends; 
So  perfectly  do  both  agree, 
So  close  their  bond  of  sympathy! 

But  those  who  come  to  wear  away 
With  me  the  time  they  deem  a  bore, 
And  blithely  rob  me  of  a  day 
Which  God  Himself  cannot  restore — 
From  such,  at  risk  of  being  rude, 
I  will  preserve  my  solitude. 

Their  vapid  visits  I  refuse; 

Their  forced  attachment  I  decline; 

I  surely  have  the  right  to  choose 

The  friends,  whose  lives  shall  blend  with  mine; 

My  bark  shall  gain  the  open  sea 

With  but  the  few  I  love  and  me. 


GRATITUDE 

The  sun  is  on  the  mountain  crest, 

The  sky  without  a  cloud, 

The  moon  is  slipping  down  the  west, 

The  robin's  song  is  loud; 

White  blossoms  crown  the  apple  trees, 

The  dew  is  on  the  thorn, 

The  scent  of  roses  fills  the  breeze, — 

Thank  God,  another  morn! 

The  sunset  embers  smoulder  low, 
The  moon  climbs  o'er  the  hill, 
The  peaks  have  caught  the  alpenglow, 
The  robin's  song  is  still; 
The  hush  of  peace  is  on  the  earth, 
With  stars  the  sky  grows  bright, 
The  fire  is  kindled  on  my  hearth, — 
Thank  God,  another  night! 


TWO  MOTHERS 

One  night  two  lonely  women  met 

Beside  a  storm-swept  bay ; 

With  tears  their  mournful  eyes  were  wet, 

Their  pale  lips  salt  with  spray; 

They  passed;  then  turned,  as  though  each  yearned 

Some  friendly  word  to  say. 


"  Poor  soul  ",  cried  one,  "  hast  thou  no  fear 

To  walk  this  haunted  strand? 

What  hopeless  sorrow  brings  thee  here, 

Where  dead  men  drift  to  land? 

I  too  have  grief  beyond  relief ; 

Speak!    I  can  understand." 


"  I  mourn  a  son  ",  the  other  said; 

"  That  ocean  is  his  grave ; 

My  heart  will  not  be  comforted, 

It  breaks  with  every  wave ; 

Would  I  might  sleep  in  yonder  deep 

With  him  I  could  not  save ! 


1 50  TWO    MOTHERS 

"  The  wind  was  raging,  as  to-night; 
Straight  on  these  rocks  it  blew  ; 
I  watched  until  the  dawning  light 
Disclosed  the  wreck  to  view ; 
From  where  we  stand  I  saw  his  hand 
Wave  me  a  last  adieu ! 

"  He  deemed  the  boat  too  frail  to  bear 

Another  living  freight; 

'  Push  off ' !  he  said  with  tranquil  air, 

'  Go  first,  and  I  will  wait; ' 

But  all  the  while,  despite  his  smile, 

He  knew  'twould  be  too  late. 

"  That  heartless  crew  shall  nevermore 

God's  absolution  find ! 

They  watched,  like  cravens,  from  the  shore 

The  man  they  left  behind 

Go  down  before  the  breakers'  roar, 

The  surges  and  the  wind ! 

"  Hence,  when  such  maddened  tempests  rave, 

I  cannot  rest  at  home, 

For  then  the  billows  deck  his  grave 

With  flowers  of  snow-white  foam; 

And  here  I  pray  till  break  of  day 

Beneath  night's  starless  dome." 


TWO    MOTHERS 

A  silence  fell;  then,  faint  and  low, 

The  other,  weeping,  said ; 

"  My  heavier  woe  thou  needst  not  know ; 

Within  his  ocean  bed 

On  thy  son's  name  there  rests  no  shame; 

Would  God  that  mine  were  dead !  " 


THE  GIFT  OF  JUNO 

Already  'neath  the  morning  star 
The  shrine,  by  Juno's  favor  blest, 
Had  flashed  its  whiteness  from  afar, 
Resplendent  on  a  mountain's  crest, 
Along  whose  base  the  ocean  rolled 
A  flood  of  sapphire,  flecked  with  gold, 


In  twilight  still  the  shore  remained; 
But,  toiling  upward  through  the  night, 
A  wistful  mother  had  just  gained 
The  summit  of  the  sacred  height, 
Where  Juno's  far-famed  statue  stood, — 
Palladium  of  motherhood. 


At  her  approach  the  bolts  were  drawn, 
And  inward  swung  the  temple  gate, 
Revealing  in  the  light  of  dawn 
The  marble  form  immaculate, 
The  effigy  of  heaven's  queen, 
Sublime,  beneficent,  serene. 


THE    GIFT    OF   JUNO  153 

Slow-moving  and  with  fluttering  heart, 
The  youthful  matron  onward  passed 
To  where  that  masterpiece  of  art 
Repaid  her  arduous  toil  at  last; 
As,  gazing  through  a  mist  of  tears, 
She  realized  here  the  dream  of  years. 

Beside  her,  one  on  either  hand, 
Two  little  children  stood  in  fear, 
Unable  yet  to  understand 
The  reason  of  their  coming  here ; 
Both  beautiful  in  form  and  face, 
True  types  of  the  Hellenic  race. 

No  fairer  pilgrims  ever  came 
Within  the  temple's  stately  door; 
No  sweeter  picture  could  it  frame 
Than  that  upon  its  marble  floor, 
When,  in  the  hush  of  dawning  day, 
The  lovely  trio  knelt  to  pray. 

"  Immortal  goddess,  not  in  vain 

Do  mothers  lift  their  souls  to  thee; 

Their  love,  their  hopes,  their  fears,  their  pain 

Thy  heart  can  feel,  thine  eyes  can  see; 

Deign,  therefore,  my  sweet  babes  to  bless, 

O  Juno,  fount  of  tenderness ! 


i54  THE    GIFT   OF   JUNO 

"  To  thy  divine,  all-seeing  eyes 
The  course  of  every  life  is  clear ; 
I  pray  thee,  note  what  future  lies 
Before  these  helpless  children  here; 
Then,  of  the  gifts  by  thee  possessed, 
Give  them  but  one ;  choose  thou  the  best ! " 


She  paused,  and  waited  for  reply, 
While  solemn  stillness  filled  the  shrine; 
Heard  something  like  a  gentle  sigh, 
Or  passing  of  a  breath  divine ; 
Then  saw  their  eyes,  like  petals,  close 
In  death's  sweet,  statue-like  repose. 

Repose,  unbroken  evermore! 
The  world  of  suffering  still  unknown! 
Escaping  through  that  peaceful  door 
From  every  ill  life  might  have  shown. 
Heart-broken  mother,  cease  to  weep! 
The  best  was  given  them, — dreamless  sleep. 


MYSTERIES 

Bound  to  the  earth  in  its  headlong  flight, 
Whence  and  whither  we  do  not  know, 
Cleaving  the  awful  void  of  night 
With  frost  above  and  fire  below, 
What  is  the  goal  toward  which  we  fly? 
What  does  it  mean  to  live  and  die? 


Under  our  feet  is  a  trembling  shell, 

Pierced  by  a  hundred  lurid  rents; 

Lower  still  is  a  molten  hell 

Which  glares  through  lava-belching  vents, 

And  with  its  blighting,  withering  breath 

Chars  men,  like  leaves,  to  a  shrivelled  death. 


Thin  is  the  rind  on  which  we  tread ; 

It  shakes,  and  a  thousand  lives  are  lost; 

The  sea  engulfs  unnumbered  dead; 

Each  second  scores  of  souls  are  tossed 

Into  the  stream  that  sweeps  them  on  ... 

Whither?     Who  knows  where  they  are  gone? 


156  MYSTERIES 

Over  the  earth-crust  millions  crawl, 

Fight  for  a  little  gold  and  grain, 

Then  in  a  few  years  leave  it  all, 

Nevermore  to  be  seen  again! 

When  will  the  tragic  tale  be  told? 

And  what  of  Man  when  the  earth  grows  cold  ? 

Poised  on  the  planet's  rim  we  stand, 
Peering  aghast  into  boundless  space; 
Infinite  depths  on  every  hand, 
Never  again  in  the  self-same  place ; 
Dragged  by  the  sun  itself  away 
On  toward  a  point  in  the  Milky  Way. 

Not  without  companions  we ; 
Here  and  there  gleam  other  fires, — 
Burning  ships  on  a  shoreless  sea; 
Now  and  again  a  flame  expires, 
One  last,  quivering  shaft  of  light, 
Shot  through  a  billion  leagues  of  night 

There  in  its  last  volcanic  throes 
A  dying  world  perhaps  dissolves; 
Further  still,  where  the  sun-mist  glows, 
A  mighty,  new-born  sun  evolves; 
Ceaseless  change  in  an  endless  sky! 
What  does  it  mean  to  live  and  die? 


TYROLEAN 


OBERMAIS 

Obermais !     Obermais ! 

Charming  bit  of  Paradise, 
Where  the  palm  and  snow  are  blended, 
Where  life's  joys  seem  never  ended, 
Where  the  purl  of  limpid  streams 
Haunts  the  traveller's  deepest  dreams; 
Girt  by  miles  of  terraced  vines, 
Birthplace  of  the  purest  wines, 
Sheltered  by  imposing  mountains, 
Musical  from  countless  fountains, 
Bathed  in  sunshine,  bright  with  flowers, 
Studded  with  old  Roman  towers, 
Castles,  convents,  shrines  and  walls, 
Whose  strange  history  enthralls, — 
Jewel  of  fair  South  Tyrol, 
Thou  hast  won  my  heart  and  soul! 


CONTENTMENT 

Urge  me  no  more !    The  mid-day  toil  is  ended, 
And  shadows  lengthen  from  the  radiant  west; 
The  glowing  sun,  with  sumptuous  clouds  attended, 
Sinks  to  its  rest. 


I  too  would  rest;  an  Indian-Summer  beauty 
Gilds  my  life's  autumn  in  a  charming  vale ; 
No  further  quest  of  gold  or  fame  seems  duty; 
Their  splendors  pale 


Tempt  me  no  more!     In  vain  are  spread  before  me 
New  plans  of  battle  and  rare  hopes  of  gain ; 
The  sweeter  airs  of  love  and  peace  blow  o'er  me; 
I  will  remain. 


Gone  is  the  glamour  of  the  heartless  city; 
Hateful  its  traffic  and  its  ceaseless  roar; 
Slaves  of  its  tyranny,  you  have  my  pity; 
Urge  me  no  more! 


CONTENTMENT  161 

Girdled  by  mountains,  in  a  land  of  story, 
Nestles  the  high-walled  garden  of  my  home ; 
Here,  book  in  hand,  I  feast  myself  on  glory, 
Nor  wish  to  roam. 


Each  dawn  brings  rose-hued  snow-peaks  to  my  vision ; 
Each  eve's  enchanting  pageant  thrills  my  soul; 
Day  after  day  I  find  yet  more  elysian 
Fair  South  Tyrol. 


Urge  me  no  more !    The  riches  of  Golconda 
Could  not  allure  me  to  the  old-time  task; 
Here,  till  the  curtain  falls,  to  live  and  ponder 
Is  all  I  ask. 


TO  MERAN'S  NORTHERN  MOUNTAINS 

Breathe  on  my  soul  your  everlasting  calm, 

Majestic  mountains,  passionless  and  cold! 

Give  to  my  spirit,  drooping  'neath  the  palm, 

The  rugged  strength  your  changeless  summits  hold ! 

So  thin  the  azure  veil  that  floats  between 
My  tropic  flowers  and  your  arctic  snows, 
The  same  swift  glance  reveals  to  me  the  sheen 
Of  your  white  bastions  and  my  blossoming  rose. 

Yet,  though  so  near,  my  feet  have  never  pressed 
Your  silvered  ramparts,  etched  along  the  sky : 
Untrodden  crystal  crowns  each  spotless  crest ; 
On  virgin  snows  the  sunset  colors  die. 

So  near,  yet  unattainable !    Ye  seem 
Like  awful  deities,  at  whose  command 
Man's  evanescent  life, — a  fretful  stream, 
One  instant  murmurs  and  is  lost  in  sand. 


MERAN'S   NORTHERN   MOUNTAINS     163 

Splendid  in  sunshine,  steadfast  under  storms, 
Facing  the  fiercest  tempests  with  disdain, 
The  blackest  clouds  that  shroud  your  giant  forms, 
Leave  on  your  glittering  panoply  no  stain. 


The  setting  sun  will  turn  your  gray  to  gold ; 
The  dawn  will  find  your  icy  foreheads  bare, 
And  all  your  glacial  armor,  as  of  old, 
Shining  resplendent  in  the  upper  air. 

So  from  my  life  may  all  dark  clouds  depart! 
So  may  I  come  unscathed  from  Fate's  worst  blows! 
Yet  with  your  strength,  O  Mountains,  let  my  heart 
Retain,  as  well,  the  sweetness  of  the  rose. 


AT    SUNSET 

Belov'd  Meran,  supremely  fair! 
With  joy  I  greet  thy  peaks  anew, 
And  quaff  again  the  crystal  air 
That  fills  thy  snow-rimmed  bowl  of  blue. 

Once  more  through  miles  of  trellised  vines 
The  purple  bloom  of  vintage  glows; 
Once  more  amid  my  palms  and  pines 
I  breathe  the  perfume  of  the  rose. 

Once  more,  as  snow-crests  far  and  wide 
Flush  crimson  in  the  Alpine  glow, 
I  sit  and  muse  at  eventide 
On  Roman  days  of  long  ago. 

Across  the  valley,  steeped  in  light, 
Uplifted  toward  the  western  skies, 
And  flanked  by  many  a  snow-crowned  height, 
The  stately  "  Roman  Terrace  "  lies ; 

Whose  fair  expanse  hath  been  a  stage 
Where  actors  for  two  thousand  years 


AT   SUNSET  165 

Have  played,  by  turns,  in  every  age 
Their  varying  roles  of  smiles  and  tears. 

Still  through  its  mighty  Vintschgau  door 
The  sunset  streams  in  floods  of  gold; 
Still  winding  o'er  its  emerald  floor, 
The  river  sparkles  as  of  old. 

I  watch  the  distant  torrent  leap 
From  ledge  to  ledge,  yet  hear  no  sound; 
A  ghostly  path  it  seems,  whose  deep, 
Swift  channel  cleaves  enchanted  ground. 

Beside  its  waves,  whose  glittering  spray 
Begems  the  gorge  its  flood  hath  worn, 
Rome's  conquering  legions  made  their  way 
A  score  of  years  ere  Christ  was  born. 

On  yonder  mound  where  frowns  the  wood, 
And  curves  the  road  with  steep  incline, 
A  temple  to  Diana  stood 
Before  the  age  of  Antonine. 

Near  Schloss  Tyrol's  dismantled  frame 
I  see  the  ancient  watchtower  stand, 
Whence  Caesar's  guards  with  smoke  or  flame 
Flashed  signals  into  Switzerland. 


i66  AT   SUNSET 

And,  nearer  yet,  Forst's  stately  walls 
Loom  grandly  from  the  darkening  moor, 
Where  still  a  dungeon-keep  recalls 
The  last  Tyrolean  Troubadour. 

Belov'd  Meran!  the  splendid  dower 
That  Nature  gave  to  South  Tyrol 
Cannot  alone  explain  thy  power 
To  captivate  both  mind  and  soul; 

I  love  thy  sunshine,  fruits  and  flowers, 
I  love  thy  mountain-peaks  sublime, 
But,  best  of  all,  thine  aged  towers, — 
The  ivied  proteges  of  Time. 

Thus  favored,  while  my  sun  of  life 
Moves  calmly  toward  a  cloudless  west, 
I  crave  no  more  the  New  World's  strife 
And  ceaseless  turmoil  of  unrest; 

Content,  within  my  garden  walls, 
To  let  the  Present's  uproar  cease, 
While  on  my  tranquil  spirit  falls 
The  Past's  sweet  benison  of  peace. 


POST   NUBES   LUX 

Sink,  sullen  rear-guard  of  the  storm, 
Behind  the  Laugen's  snowy  crest! 
Already  Rotheck's  lordly  form 
Stands  spotless  in  the  radiant  west; 
Blow,  winter  wind,  and  clarify 
Our  crystal  air,  our  sapphire  sky! 

Shine,  Sun  God !    Give  us  life  once  more ! 
Too  long  have  clouds  concealed  thy  face ; 
Give  to  Meran  the  look  she  wore, 
When  to  her  beauty,  light,  and  grace 
I  gladly  yielded  heart  and  soul, 
And  made  my  home  in  fair  Tyrol ! 

Stupendous  source  of  life  and  light! 
As  in  thy  warmth  my  pulses  thrill, 
Before  thy  glory  and  thy  might 
I  feel  myself  a  Pagan  still, 
And  in  my  spirit's  inmost  shrine 
I  half  adore  thee  as  divine. 


THE  HOME-COMING  FROM   ROME 

Hurry !    There  is  but  one  more  turning ! 
The  horses  cannot  go  too  fast, 
So  eagerly  our  hearts  are  yearning 
To  see  the  longed-for  home  at  last  ! 


Here  is  the  shrine,  the  lamp  still  burning, 
Beside  the  vineyard's  massive  wall; 
And  see,  to  welcome  our  returning, 
The  banners  on  the  flagstaffs  tall ! 


There,  at  the  gate,  our  servants,  wearing 
Their  brightest  smiles,  together  stand, 
In  quaint,  Tyrolean  style  preparing 
To  kiss  respectfully  the  hand. 


Now,  too,  the  dogs  perceive  their  master, 
And  rush  to  meet  our  carriage  wheels; 
The  loyal  Leo  first  and  faster, 
The  dackels  close  upon  his  heels! 


THE   HOME-COMING   FROM   ROME     169 

How  wild  the  joy,  how  loud  the  chorus 
Our  old,  familiar  tones  excite ! 
Dear,  faithful  creatures  that  adore  us, 
How  genuine  their  keen  delight ! 


The  door  is  passed,  the  hall  is  entered ! 
How  true  it  is,  where'er  we  roam, 
That  here  alone  our  hearts  are  centered, 
That  no  place  hath  the  charm  of  Home ! 

Here  smile  the  pictures  ranged  above  us; 
Here  stand  our  books,  the  best  of  friends; 
Here  those  we  love  and  those  who  love  us 
Are  happy  that  our  absence  ends. 

Priceless  the  intellectual  treasure 
On  History's  famous  sites  amassed; 
Precious  indeed  the  subtle  pleasure 
From  Art's  great  glories  of  the  past ; 

But  well  we  know,  when  once  more  seated 
Within  these  rooms  with  volumes  lined, , 
That, — now  the  journey  is  completed — , 
The  best  of  Rome  is  in  the  mind. 


MY    GARDEN 

Sweet  garden,  wreathed  in  fruits  and  flowers, 
And   domed  by  blue  Tyrolean  skies, 
Within  thy  rose-encircled  bowers, 
Secluded  from  all  curious  eyes, 
I  find  a  peaceful  paradise. 

Without,  the  world's  fierce  strife  and  yearning 
In  floods  of  passion  ebb  and  flow ; 
Within,  as  in  a  shrine,  is  burning, 
Lit  by  the  fires  of  long  ago, 
A  stormy  life's  calm  afterglow. 

How  sumptuous  is  the  golden  splendor 
Thy  yellow  roses  give  my  walls! 
Like  the  soft  glow  so  sweet  and  tender, 
That  o'er  the  snow  at  sunset  falls, 
And  by  its  spell  the  soul  enthralls. 

How  swiftly  pass  the  happy  hours 
Beside  thy  palms,  beneath  thy  pines, 


MY   GARDEN  171 

As  through  the  fountain's  crystal  showers 
I  watch  the  sunlight  gild  thy  vines 
Against  the  snow-peaks'  silvered  lines! 

I  lean  upon  my  loggia's  railing 

And  view  thy  vineyard's  saffron  sheen, — 

Its  amber  leaves  in  glory  veiling 

The  purpling  grapes,  that  hang  between 

Its  long  arcades  of  gold  and  green.. 

And  at  the  sight  my  heart  is  beating 
With  rapture  hitherto  unknown, 
As  with  delight  I  keep  repeating 
In  love's  triumphant  undertone, — 
"  All  this  is  mine,  my  very  own  " ! 

Then  with  a  chill,  like  that  which  steals 
Across  the  vale  at  set  of  sun, 
A  solemn  thought  the  truth  reveals, — 
How  transient  is  the  prize  thus  won! 
How  short  a  time  my  lease  can  run! 

Before  I  thought  this  garden  fair 
And  from  its  beauty  rapture  drew, 
How  many  others  breathed  its  air, 
And,  glorying  in  its  matchless  view, 
Gathered  its  roses  wet  with  dew! 


172  MY   GARDEN 

Where  now  my  vines  and  violets  grow, 
And  fill  the  breeze  with  odors  sweet, 
More  than  two  thousand  years  ago 
Some  Roman  had  his  loved  retreat, 
And  watched  the  sun  and  snow-peak  meet. 


Rome  fell;  but,  Maia  still  remaining, 
Both  Goth  and  Frank  the  slope  desired, 
Through  two  millenniums  still  retaining 
The  longing  for  what  all  admired, 
The  love  which  ownership  inspired. 

I  sometimes  fancy  that  I  see 
Those  masters  of  an  earlier  age, — 
A  ghostly  line  preceding  me 
Across  this  corner  of  life's  stage, — 
Pagan  and  Christian,  bard  and  sage. 

Each  one  in  turn  called  thee  his  own, 
And  deemed  thee  his  submissive  slave; 
But,  when  a  few  short  years  had  flown, 
What  of  thy  bounty  could  he  save? 
At  most  thou  gavest  him  a  grave ! 


Ephemeral  creatures  of  a  day, 
We  move  like  insects  on  thy  soil, 


MY   GARDEN  173 

And  wear  our  little  lives  away 
In  fleeting  pleasures  or  in  toil ; 
But  naught  our  destiny  can  foil. 

A  few  more  Springs  thy  buds  shall  quicken, 
A  few  more  Summers  bring  thy  bloom, 
A  few  more  Autumn  suns  shall  thicken 
The  clusters  ripening  in  thy  gloom, — 
When  I  for  strangers  must  make  room! 

When  other  eyes  shall  see  the  vision 
Of  Rotheck's  pyramid  of  snow, 
And  watch  the  roseate  hues  elysian 
Creep  over  it  at  evening's  glow, 
As  o'er  its  crest  the  sun  sinks  low. 

Another  then  will  pluck  the  flowers 
Whose  seeds  my  loving  hand  hath  sown; 
Another,  through  the  mid-day  hours, 
Will  hear  the  honey  bee's  dull  drone, 
Where  the  red  trumpet  flowers  have  blown. 

These  mountains  then  will  still  be  lifting 
Their  ice-crowned  summits  to  the  sky; 
The  fleecy  clouds  will  still  be  drifting 
Above  their  peaks  and  pastures  high  ; 
But  they  will  heed  not  where  I  lie. 


i74  MY    GARDEN 

Even  thou  wilt  never  miss  thy  master! 
Thy  vines  and  flowers  will  bloom  the  same, 
The  season's  round  will  move  no  faster, 
No  bud  will  quench  its  torch  of  flame, 
And  naught  will  change  here  but  a  name. 

Yet  all  who  shall  with  joy  succeed  me 
Must  in  their  turn  thy  charms  resign, 
When,  as  to  all  who  now  precede  me, 
Death  shall  have  made  the  fatal  sign 
To  join  the  ever-lengthening  line. 

We  "owners",  then,  are  but  thy  tenants 
Despite  our  purchase  and  our  pride; 
What  is  to  thee  our  transient  presence? 
Thou  carest  not  if  we  abide 
Among  thy  roses,  or  have  died. 

Hence,  let  me  drain  in  fullest  measure 
Thy  cup  of  pure  Tyrolean  wine! 
To-day  at  least  I  hold  thy  treasure; 
To-day  with  truth  I  call  thee  mine ; 
To-morrow's  sun  may  never  shine. 


OSWALD,  THE  MINNESINGER 

A  Legend  of  Schloss  Forst,  near  Meran 

PROLOGUE 

Oswald  von  Wolkenstein,  the  Last  of  the  Minne- 
singers, loved  a  beautiful  woman,  named  Sabina, 
who  proved  faithless  to  him,  thereby  causing  the 
poet  great  mental  suffering.  He  avenged  his  wrongs 
by  writing  poems  on  her  coquetry  and  cruelty. 
Years  later,  Sabina,  who  had  never  forgiven  him  his 
satirical  verses,  became  the  favorite  of  the  Tyrolese 
prince,  Frederick,  of  the  "  Empty  Purse  ",  who  also 
hated  Oswald  for  opposing  his  political  plans.  Ac- 
cordingly, Sabina  plotted  with  her  lover  to  induce 
the  poet  to  come  to  her  under  a  pretence  of  renew- 
ing their  former  love.  To  effect  this,  she  wrote  him 
a  letter  expressing  her  undying  affection  for  him, 
and  begging  him  to  meet  her  near  Meran.  The  plot 
was  successful,  and  Oswald  fell  completely  into  their 
power.  By  Frederick's  orders  he  was  at  once  im- 
prisoned in  the  dungeon  of  Schloss  Forst,  and  sub- 
jected to  tortures  which  crippled  him  for  the  rest  of 
his  life. 


176         OSWALD,    THE   MINNESINGER 

"  Oswald  von  Wolkenstein ! 
Last  of  a  gifted  line, 

Years  have  gone  by  since  we  parted  in  hate ; 
What  have  they  taught  to  me? 
This,  that  all's  naught  to  me 
Save  what  you  brought  to  me, — 
Love  and  love's  fate. 
Can  you  that  love  forget? 
Know  that  I  love  you  yet! 
If  you  my  passion  share, 
Linger  no  longer  there; 
Fearless  to  do  and  dare, 
Come,  ere  too  late ! 


"  Near  the  old  Roman  Road 
Up  which  the  legions  strode, 
Where  the  first  vine-covered  terraces  rise, 
Stands  a  grim  fortress  tall, 
Which,  like  a  mountain  wall, 
Though  scarred  by  many  a  ball, 
Capture  defies! 
1  Forst '  is  the  name  it  bears ; 
Brilliant  the  fame  it  wears; 
Thither, — our  trysting  place — , 
Ride  at  your  swiftest  pace; 
Come  to  my  fond  embrace! 
My  love  your  prize !  " 


OSWALD,    THE   MINNESINGER         177 

Who  could  such  words  suspect? 
Who  could  that  call  reject? 
Surely  not  Wolkenstein,  ardent  of  soul! 
Gone  is  the  pain  of  years; 
Vanished  his  jealous  fears; 
Smiles  have  replaced  his  tears; 
Lost  self-control; 
Slave  to  his  passion's  past, 
Vows  to  the  winds  are  cast; 
Faithless,  she  holds  him  still; 
Absent,  she  sways  his  will; 
Traitress,  with  subtle  skill 
Plavs  she  her  role. 


Where  Etsch  and  Eisack  meet, 
Mingling  their  waters  fleet, 
Opens  the  valley  that  leads  to  Meran; 
As  its  red  cliffs  divide, 
Castles  on  either  side 
(Each  a  strong  chieftain's  pride), 
Threaten  his  plan; 
Yet,  where  the  shadows  sleep 
Under  each  dungeon  keep, 
Up  through  the  land  of  wine, 
Blest  with  both  palm  and  pine, 
Oswald  von  Wolkenstein 
Rides  to  Terlan. 


178         OSWALD,    THE   MINNESINGER 

Here  falls  his  gallant  horse, 
Killed  by  his  headlong  course; 
Is  it  a  warning  to  halt  and  retreat? 
Yet  who,  when  passion  pleads, 
Ever  such  warning  heeds? 
What  though  a  dozen  steeds 
Drop  at  his  feet? 
Hence,  while  the  peasants  stare, 
Buys  he  their  swiftest  mare; 
And,  as  the  pavement  rings 
With  the  bright  gold  he  flings, 
He  to  the  saddle  springs, 
Never  so  fleet! 


Now,  lover,  pause  for  breath! 
Folly  may  here  mean  death! 
Yon  gleam  the  lights  of  the  capital's  towers; 
Here  let  thy  pace  be  slow ; 
Frederick,  thy  crafty  foe, 
Plots  there  to  lay  thee  low, 
Fearing  thy  powers; 
He  of  the  "  empty  purse  ", 
Stung  by  thy  biting  verse, 
Using  a  woman's  hate, 
Offers  a  tempting  bait; 
Both  thy  approach  await, 
Counting  the  hours ! 


OSWALD,    THE   MINNESINGER          179 

Dark  is  the  starless  night; 
Only  one  feeble  light 

Burns  at  the  grating  surmounting  the  door; 
Has  his  advance  been  heard? 
Was  that  a  whispered  word? 
What  in  that  shadow  stirred? 
Shall  he  explore? 
Fie !  when  a  prize  so  fair 
Doubtless  awaits  him  there, 
Shall  he  now  hesitate 
Here,  at  Forst's  very  gate, 
Fearing  to  test  his  fate? 
No,  nevermore! 


Hark!  'tis  a  gruff  command, 
Loosing  an  ambushed  band; 
Seizing,  they  drag  him,  disarmed,  to  the  court ; 
Brightly  the  torches  flare, 
Flinging  a  ruddy  glare 
On  a  proud,  mocking  pair, 
Watching  the  sport; 
God,  can  this  thing  be  true? 
She  with  this  hostile  crew ! 
"  Faithless  and  shameless  one, 
Thou  hast  my  life  undone  " ! 
"  Poet,  thy  race  is  run  ", 
Is  her  retort. 


180         OSWALD,    THE   MINNESINGER 

Barred  is  the  iron  door! 
On  the  damp  dungeon  floor 
Oswald  the  Troubadour,  gifted  and  strong, 
Lies  in  a  loathsome  cave, 
Dark  as  a  living  grave, 
No  one  to  care  or  save, 
Silenced  his  song; 
And  while  they  leave  him  there, 
Crushed  by  profound  despair, 
Princelet  and  paramour, 
Knowing  their  prey  secure, 
Feeling  their  vengeance  sure, 
Laugh  loud  and  long. 


Who  can  in  words  relate 
Oswald's  unhappy  fate, 

Left  to  these  monsters,  whose  hate  was  ablaze? 
Both  on  revenge  were  bent; 
He  for  a  menace  sent, 
She  for  the  merriment 
Caused  by  his  lays. 
"  Dungeon  and  torture-rack, 
These  shall  now  pay  thee  back! 
Minstrel  and  poet  rare, 
Rave  in  thy  mad  despair, 
And  in  that  fetid  lair 
Finish  thy  days !  " 


OSWALD,    THE   MINNESINGER          181 

Vainly  he  pleads  with  her ; 
No  prayer  succeeds  with  her; 
Useless  the  joys  of  their  past  to  rehearse; 
For  to  increase  his  woe, 
Frederick,  his  jealous  foe, 
Shares  in  this  cruel  show, — 
Fit  for  God's  curse ; 
Shameless  and  treacherous, 
Heartless  and  lecherous, 
Sabine  with  fiendish  glee, 
Deaf  to  his  every  plea, 
Watches  his  agony, 
Quoting  his  verse! 

Broken  at  last  his  chain ! 
Ended  the  poet's  pain! 
Freed  by  a  ransom  (his  relatives'  dole), 
Humbled  by  grief  and  shame, 
Injured  in  name  and  fame, 
Drags  he  his  crippled  frame 
Back  through  Tyrol. 

Then,  in  a  plaintive  song 
Chanting  his  grievous  wrong, 
Oswald  von  Wolkenstein, 
Last  of  his  gifted  line, 
Dies  in  Schloss  Hauenstein; 
God  rest  his  soul ! 


AFTER   THE   VINTAGE 

How  can  my  vineyard's  charm  be  told, 
As  it  basks  in  the  autumn  haze  ? 
The  Frost  King's  touch,  so  light  and  cold, 
Like  that  of  the  Persian  king  of  old, 
Hath  turned  its  roof  from  green  to  gold, 
Till  the  hillside  seems  ablaze. 


Threading  its  maze  of  arbors  fair 

Under  its  saffron  bowers, 

I  watch,  in  the  crisp,  November  air, 

Through  vine-framed  openings  here  and  there 

The  ivied  walls  of  castles  rare 

And  ruined  Roman  towers. 


Sapphire  blue  is  the  cloudless  sky, 
White  are  the  mountain  walls, 
Rainbow-hued  are  the  tints  that  lie 
Lavishly  spread  on  the  forests  high, 
Where  leaves  by  millions  flame  and  die, 
As  the  chill  of  Autumn  falls. 


AFTER   THE   VINTAGE  183 

Over  the  slopes  in  sun  and  shade 
The  terraced  vines  descend, 
Like  stately  steps  of  a  broad  cascade, 
Or  an  amphitheatre's  seats,  arrayed 
In  folds  of  sumptuous,  gold  brocade, 
Where  red  and  amber  blend. 


I  love  to  see,  from  the  rising  sun 

Each  terrace  gain  its  crown, 

When  the  splendid  dawn  hath  just  begun, 

From  the  crest  of  the  mountain  it  hath  won, 

To  gild  the  vine-rows  one  by  one, 

As  the  mellow  glow  creeps  down. 

And  when  the  day's  receding  light 

Deserts  the  vale  below, 

I  trace  its  noiseless,  upward  flight 

Through  darkening  zones  of  foliage  bright, 

Till  all  the  world  is  lost  in  night 

Save  pyramids  of  snow. 


THE    PASSING    MOON 

In  my  loggia  bright  I  watch  to-night 

The  full  moon  sailing  by ; 

From  a  crystal  creek  in  a  glaciered  peak 

It  slipped  to  the  open  sky, 

And  now  rides  free  in  a  clear,  blue  sea, 

With  not  an  island  nigh. 


Through  pearly  haze  its  light  displays 

Each  buttressed  mountain  side, 

And  softly  shines  through  stately  pines 

Where  feudal  castles  hide, 

And  every  height  grows  dazzling  white 

In  the  foam  of  a  silver  tide. 


From  the  eastern  side  of  the  valley  wide 

To  its  snow-capped  western  rim 

It  will  hold  its  way,  till  the  dawning  day 

Shall  have  made  its  disk  grow  dim ; 

Then,  leaving  the  blue,  will  drop  from  view 

Behind  the  mountain's  brim. 


THE    PASSING   MOON  185 

Whence  did  it  climb  on  its  path  sublime, 

Ere  it  left  that  icy  height? 

And  where  will  it  go,  when  yonder  snow 

Is  reached  in  the  morning  light? 

Will  its  face  elsewhere  be  just  as  fair, 

When  here  it  is  lost  to  sight? 

Why  should  I  ask?     'Tis  a  fruitless  task; 

Enough  that  its  splendor  falls 

On  me  to-night  in  my  loggia  bright, 

Till  the  scene  my  soul  enthralls; 

'Tis  a  long  time  yet,  ere  the  moon  will  set 

Behind  those  glittering  walls. 

And  even  when  it  sinks  again 

Below  that  stainless  crest, 

It  will  seem  at  last  to  have  safely  passed 

To  a  haven  of  peace  and  rest, 

Like  a  happy  soul  that  hath  reached  its  goal 

In  the  kingdom  of  the  blest. 

I  also  know  not  where  I  go, 
Nor  whence  I  came,  or  why, 
Nor  can  I  guess  what  happiness 
Or  strange,  new  world  may  lie 
Beyond  the  vale  through  which  I  sail, 
Beneath  another  sky; 


i86  THE   PASSING   MOON 

But  as  the  moon,  which  all  too  soon 

Sinks  down  the  west  for  me, 

To  other  eyes  appears  to  rise 

And  glide  on  fair  and  free, 

So  the  frail  boat  in  which  I  float, 

Though  tempest-worn  it  be, 

May  cross  life's  brink,  and  seem  to  sink, 

Yet  sail  another  sea. 


THE   MOUNTAINS   OF   MERAN   AT   SUN- 
RISE 

Like  snow-white  tents,  their  tapering  forms 

Indent  the  western  sky : 
The  jewelled  gifts  of  countless  storms 

Upon  their  summits  lie. 

The  golden  moon,  with  fading  scars, 
Sinks  toward  their  frosty  spires; 

Around  them  pale  the  wearied  stars, 
Like  waning  bivouac  fires. 

Stray  cloudlets,  reddening  one  by  one, 
Like  rose  leaves  half  unfurled, 

Announce  the  coming  of  the  sun 
To  an  awakening  world. 

The  chief  peak  now  hath  caught  the  glow, 

And,  soft,  o'er  sloping  walls 
And  buttresses  of  dazzling  snow, 

The  flood  of  splendor  falls; 


1 88         THE    MOUNTAINS    OF   MERAN 

While  miles  of  tender  pink  and  gold 

Incrust  the  blue  of  space, 
And  bands  of  amethyst  enfold 

Each  mountan's  massive  base. 

Gone  are  the  tents  that  pierced  the  skies; 

But  in  their  place,  more  fair, 
Transfigured  flowers  of  Paradise 

Bloom  in  the  crystal  air. 


AUTUMN    IN  MERAN 

The  vintage  time  is  gone,  but  not  its  glory ; 
The  grapes  are  garnered  from  their  leafy  gloom; 
Yet  miles  of  vineyards,  story  crowning  story, 
Cover  the  hillsides  with  a  golden  bloom. 


The  vine-clad  terraces  descend  the  mountains 
Like  cascades  rippling  with  resplendent  gold ; 
Steeped  in  the  sun,  and  fed  by  sweet-voiced  fountains, 
Tyrolean  slopes  a  paradise  unfold. 


Above  the  vines  the  mountain  sides  are  blending 
The  oaks'  and  maples'  multicolored  glow, 
In  variegated  zones  their  hues  ascending 
From  radiant  roses  to  eternal  snow. 


Now  here,  now  there,  through  brilliant  foliage  peeping, 
A  ruined  castle  seeks  its  walls  to  hide, — 
High  on  some  lonely  crag  in  silence  sleeping, 
Left  centuries  since  by  history's  ebbing  tide. 


igo  AUTUMN   IN    MERAN 

Down  through  its  gorge  the  beryl-colored  river 
Laughs  in  the  sunshine  between  tinted  walls, 
While  on  the  cliffs  the  scarlet  creepers  shiver, 
Chilled  by.  the  breeze,  as  sunset's  shadow  falls. 


Still  in  the  valley  Summer  reigns  victorious, 
Though  Winter's  silvery  sheen  creeps  slowly  down; 
Land  of  the  vine  and  snow,  at  all  times  glorious, 
In  Autumn  wearest  thou  thy  fairest  crown. 


THE    STATUE    OF    THE    EMPRESS    ELIZA- 
BETH.    MERAN 

She  is  seated  by  the  river 
In  a  robe  of  spotless  white, 
With  her  lovely  face  illumined 
By  the  evening's  tender  light; 
But  her  eyes  are  full  of  sadness, 
As  if  weary  of  the  day, 
And  her  gaze  is  toward  the  ocean, 
While  the  river  glides  away. 

At  her  feet  are  beds  of  flowers, 
Overhead  are  stately  trees 
Whose  protecting  branches  murmur 
With  the  passing  of  the  breeze  ; 
Though  her  hand  retains  a  volume, 
From  its  page  her  glances  stray, 
For  her  thoughts  are  with  the  ocean, 
As  the  river  flows  away. 

As  I  view  her  chastened  features, 
I  can  feel  the  rising  tears 


192     STATUE    OF   EMPRESS   ELIZABETH 

At  the  thought  of  all  her  anguish 

Through  a  martyrdom  of  years; 

For  her  joys  were  writ  in  water, — 

Too  impermanent  to  stay, 

And  were  swept  toward  sorrow's  ocean, 

Ere  her  youth  had  passed  away. 

She  was  captured  in  the  morning 
Of  her  childhood's  careless  age, 
And  imprisoned  in  a  palace 
Like  a  linnet  in  a  cage ; 
And  its  gilded  bars  confined  her 
To  a  Court's  prescribed  display, 
Which  her  simple  nature  hated, 
As  the  slow  years  crept  away. 

Thus  her  heart  grew  always  sadder, 
Till  her  sorrows,  one  by  one, 
Reached  at  last  their  tragic  climax 
In  the  murder  of  her  son; 
And  this  broken-hearted  woman, 
As  a  madman's  victim,  lay 
By  Geneva's  placid  waters, 
While  her  life-blood  ebbed  away ! 

Hence  her  marble  face  seems  troubled, 
As  she  gazes  down  the  stream, 


STATUE   OF   EMPRESS   ELIZABETH     193 

Like  an  angel  who  hath  wakened 
From  a  fearful,  earth-born  dream; 
She  is  waiting  for  the  sunset 
Of  her  tempest-darkened  day, 
But  her  soul  is  with  the  ocean, 
Where  all  rivers  wend  their  way. 


THE    OUTCASTS 

The  smile  of  God  was  in  the  air ; 
Enwreathed  in  veils  of  silvery  hue, 
The  valley  lay,  divinely  fair, 
Beneath  a  cloudless  vault  of  blue; 
And  singing,  like  a  bird  set  free, 
The  river  hurried  to  the  sea. 


Through  Alpine  ether,  crystal  clear, 
The  genial  sun  of  South  Tyrol 
Diffused  its  blessed  warmth  and  cheer, 
Enriching  body,  mind  and  soul, 
While  music  floated  o'er  the  stream, 
And  made  such  beauty  seem  a  dream. 


Enraptured  with  the  sun's  caress 

And  windless  warmth  'mid  peaks  of  snow, 

In  careless  quest  of  happiness 

The  gay  world  sauntered  to  and  fro, 

Or,  seated  on  the  well-kept  strand, 

Enjoyed  the  music  of  the  band. 


THE    OUTCASTS  195 

Upon  a  bench,  remote  from  those 
Whose  dress  betokened  rank  or  wealth, 
Sat  two  poor  waifs,  whose  weary  pose 
Betrayed  a  fruitless  search  for  health, — 
An  aged  couple,  near  their  end, 
United,  yet  without  a  friend. 

But  still  they  bravely  tried  to  smile, 

— So  warm  the  sun,  so  fair  the  scene! — 

They  could  be  happy  yet  a  while, 

Ere  death's  cold  shadow  crept  between; 

And  the  soft  music's  rhythmic  flow 

Recalled  their  youth  of  long  ago. 

"  Begone !  "  a  watchman's  voice  exclaimed ; 
"  Your  rustic  garb  is  much  too  poor ; 
How  comes  it,  you  are  not  ashamed 
In  such  a  place  to  play  the  boor? 
From  company  like  this  withdraw! 
Such  is  the  mandate  of  the  law." 


The  startled  strangers  meekly  rose 
And  moved  away  with  downcast  eyes, 
Too  wonted  to  such  cruel  blows 
To  manifest  the  least  surprise; 
Too  humbled  to  inquire  why; 
Too  timid  to  attempt  reply. 


196  THE    OUTCASTS 

Poor  outcasts  from  that  joyous  stage 
Where  well-dressed  hundreds  strolled  at  ease, 
With  faltering  steps,  and  bowed  with  age, 
They  vanished  slowly  'neath  the  trees; 
But  neither  scanned  the  other's  face, 
For  fear  a  falling  tear  to  trace. 

Farewell,  sweet,  music-laden  air, 
And  sunshine  on  the  sheltered  strand! 
I  follow  where  that  outcast  pair 
Are  walking  sadly,  hand  in  hand; 
For  me  your  vaunted  charm  hath  fled, 
While  they  remain  uncomforted. 


HEIMWEH 

I  dwell  in  a  region  of  valleys  fair, 

Of  stately  forests  and  mountains  bold, 

Of  churches  filled  with  treasures  rare, 

And  storied  castles  centuries  old ; 

But  now  and  then,  when  the  sun  sinks  low, 

And  the  vesper  bell  is  softly  rung, 

I  think  of  the  days  of  long  ago, 

And  yearn  for  the  land  where  I  was  young. 


I  live  where  the  sun  shines  bright  and  warm 

On  feathery  palms  and  terraced  vines, 

Yet  oft  I  sigh  for  a  boreal  storm 

And  the  sough  of  the  wind  through  northern  pines ; 

And  though  my  ear  hath  wonted  grown 

To  the  accents  strange  of  an  alien  tongue, 

No  speech  hath  half  so  sweet  a  tone 

As  the  language  learned  when  I  was  young. 


I  live  in  a  land  where  men  are  kind, 
And  friends  increase,  as  the  years  roll  on, 


198  HEIMWEH 

Yet  of  them  all  not  one  I  find 
So  dear  as  those  of  the  days  now  gone ; 
And  so  I  think,  as  the  sun  sinks  low, 
And  the  curfew  bell  of  my  life  is  rung, 
I  shall  turn  to  my  home  of  long  ago, 
And  die  in  the  land  where  I  was  young. 


MY  LIBRARY 

Shrine  of  my  mind,  my  Library! 
Each  morn  I  greet  thee  with  delight, 
When,  soul-refreshed,  I  bring  to  thee 
The  benediction  of  the  night; 
Encompassed  by  thy  sheltering  walls, 
'Mid  books  whose  interest  enthralls, 
Life's  shadow  from  my  spirit  falls. 


Behold!  above  the  wooded  height 
The  sun-god's  glittering  disk  appears, 
And  at  a  bound  its  flood  of  light 
The  intervening  valley  clears; 
Enveloped  in  its  noiseless  tide, 
Each  castle  on  the  mountain  side 
Stands  forth  in  splendor,  glorified. 

How  welcome  are  the  yellow  waves 
That  through  the  eastern  windows  pour 
And,  with  a  warmth  my  nature  craves, 
Transmute  to  gold  the  polished  floor ! 


200  MY   LIBRARY 

Then  mount  to  gild  my  desk,  my  chair, 

And  e'en  the  spotless  paper  there, 

Which  soon  my  written  thought  must  bear. 

In  serried  ranks  around  me  rise 
Two  thousand  tried  and  trusty  friends; 
Instructive,  famous,  witty,  wise, 
Each  gladly  his  assistance  lends 
To  suit,  at  will,  my  varying  mood; 
But  none  that  aid  will  e'er  intrude, 
Or  break,  unsought,  my  solitude. 

Some  speak  of  problems  of  the  soul, — 

Profound,  insoluble,  sublime; 

Some  tell  of  Law's  supreme  control; 

And  some  retrace  through  distant  time 

The  evolution  of  mankind, 

And  in  its  ever-broadening  mind 

A  hope  for  future  triumphs  find. 

A  few  the  noble  deeds  rehearse 

Of  heroes  famed  in  peace  or  war  ; 

While  many  in  inspiring  verse 

Show  heights  to  which  the  soul  may  soar; 

But  all  with  serious  thoughts  are  filled, 

And  some  hold  truths,  from  life  distilled, 

Whose  power  my  heart  hath  often  thrilled. 


MY   LIBRARY  201 

By  such  companions  cheered  and  blest, 
How  vapid  seems  the  listless  throng 
Of  those  who,  tortured  by  unrest, 
Find  life  too  dull  and  days  too  long, 
And  idly  frittering  time  away, 
As  scandal-mongers,  rend  and  slay 
The  friends  they  dined  with  yesterday! 


My  Library !  to  thee  I  turn, 
As  turns  the  needle  toward  the  pole, 
And  feel  my  heart  within  me  yearn 
For  all  thou  offerest  to  the  soul ; 
Why  should  I  join  in  feverish  haste 
The  crowd  for  which  I  have  no  taste, 
The  precious  boon  of  life  to  waste? 


Yet  not  as  an  austere  recluse, — 
Still  less  as  one  who  hates  mankind — , 
Do  I  thy  peaceful  precincts  choose; 
But  as  a  student,  who  can  find 
No  joys  in  Vanity's  gay  Fair 
That  for  an  instant  can  compare 
With  those  thou  askest  me  to  share. 


Moreover,  welcome  as  the  sun 

Are  friends  whose  love  I  prize  and  hold; 


202  MY   LIBRARY 

Their  visits  I  would  never  shun ; 
To  them  my  heart  grows  never  cold; 
And  whether  they  have  wealth,  or  fame, 
Or  bear  a  plain  or  titled  name, 
To  me  will  always  be  the  same. 

Nor  am  I  ever  quite  alone 
When  thus  ensconced  among  my  books ; 
A  kindred  mind  there  meets  my  own, 
And  with  me  toward  the  sunset  looks ; 
With  blazing  logs  the  hearth  is  bright, 
A  treasured  volume  is  in  sight; 
Hence  to  the  outer  world  good  night! 


BESIDE    LAKE    COMO 


THE  FAUN 

Within  my  garden's  silence  and  seclusion, 
In  pensive  beauty  gazing  toward  the  dawn, 
There  stands,  mid  vines  and  flowers  in  profusion, 
A  sculptured  Faun. 


The  boughs  of  stately  trees  are  bending  o'er  him, 
The  scent  of  calycanthus  fills  the  air, 
And  on  the  ivied  parapet  before  him 
Bloom  roses  fair. 


Beside  him  laughs  the  lightly-flowing  fountain, 
Beneath  him  spreads  the  lake's  enchanting  hue, 
And,  opposite,  a  sun-illumined  mountain 
Meets  heaven's  blue. 


Across  Lake  Como's  silvered  undulation 
The  flush  of  dawn  creeps  shyly  to  his  face, 
And  crowns  his  look  of  dreamful  contemplation 
With  tender  grace. 


206  THE   FAUN 

And  he,  like  Memnon,  thrilled  to  exultation, 
As  if  unable  longer  to  be  mute, 
Has  lifted  to  his  lips  in  adoration 
His  simple  flute. 


Ah !  would  that  I  might  hear  the  music  stealing 
From  yonder  artless  reed  upon  the  air, — 
The  subtle  revelation  of  his  feeling, 

While  standing  there! 


Perhaps  'tis  for  the  Past  that  he  is  sighing, 
When  Como's  shore  held  many  a  hallowed  shrine, 
Where  such  as  he  were  worshipped, — none  denying 
Their  rights  divine. 


That  Past  is  gone ;  its  sylvan  shrines  have  crumbled ; 
From  lake  and  grove  the  gentle  fauns  have  fled; 
Its  myths  are  scorned,  Olympus  has  been  humbled, 
And  Pan  is  dead. 


Yet  still  he  plays, — the  coming  day  adoring, 
With  brow  serene,  and  gladness  in  his  gaze, 
All  past  and  future  happiness  ignoring 
Just  for  to-day's! 


THE   FAUN  207 

Sweet  Faun,  whence  comes  thy  power  of  retaining 
Through  storm  and  sunshine  thine  unchanging  smile? 
Forsaken  thus,  what  comfort,  still  remaining, 
Makes  life  worth  while? 


Impart  to  me  the  secret  of  discerning 
The  gold  of  life,  with  none  of  its  alloy, 
That  I  may  also  satisfy  my  yearning 
For  perfect  joy! 

I  too  would  shun  those  questions,  born  of  sorrow, — 
Life's  Wherefore,  Whence  and  Whither;  I  would  fill 
My  cup  with  present  bliss,  and  let  to-morrow 
Bring  what  it  will. 

O  Spirit  of  the  vanished  world  elysian, 
Cast  over  me  the  spell  of  thy  control, 
And  give  me,  for  to-day's  supernal  vision, 
Thy  Pagan  soul! 


THE  OLD   CARRIER 

("Old  Lucia",  who  for  many  years  walked  back 
and  forth,  every  day  and  in  all  weathers,  between 
Azzano  and  Menaggio,  a  distance  of  six  miles,  bear- 
ing merchandise  of  all  sorts  in  a  basket  on  her  back, 
fell  to  the  ground  exhausted,  as  she  was  nearing  her 
poor  home  on  Christmas  Eve,  1907.  She  died  next 
morning  at  the  age  of  seventy-three.  At  the  time  she 
fell,  she  was  carrying  a  load  of  nearly  one  hundred 
and  fifty  pounds!) 


Patient  toiler  on  the  road, 
Bending  'neath  your  heavy  load, 
Worn  and  furrowed  is  your  face, 
Slow  and  tremulous  your  pace, 
Yet  you  still  pursue  your  way, 
Bearing  burdens  day  by  day, 
With  the  same  pathetic  smile, 
Over  many  a  weary  mile, 
As  you  bravely  come  and  go 
To  and  from  Menaggio. 


THE   OLD   CARRIER  209 

Snowy  white,  your  scanty  hair 
Crowns  a  forehead  seamed  with  care, 
And  a  look  of  suffering  lies 
In  your  clear-blue,  wistful  eyes; 
While  your  thin  and  ashen  cheek 
Tells  the  tale  you  will  not  speak, 
Of  a  lodging  dark  and  old, 
And  a  hearth  so  bare  and  cold 
That  you  often  hungry  go 
To  and  from  Menaggio. 


Never  know  you  days  of  rest; 

Ceaseless  is  your  humble  quest 

Of  the  pittance  that  you  ask 

For  your  arduous  daily  task. 

Every  morning  sees  your  form 

Pass  through  sunshine  or  through  storm; 

Every  evening  hears  your  feet 

Trudging  up  the  darkened  street; 

For  your  gait  is  always  slow, 

Coming  from  Menaggio. 


Once  your  dull  eyes  gleamed  with  light; 
Once  those  arms  were  round  and  white; 
And  the  feet,  now  roughly  shod, 
Lightly  danced  upon  the  sod, 


210  THE   OLD    CARRIER 

As  to  womanhood  you  grew 
And  a  lover's  rapture  knew ; 
For  you  once  were  fair,  'tis  said, 
Early  wooed  and  early  wed, 
And  your  husband  long  ago 
Died  in  old  Menaggio. 


Children  ?    Aye,  but  not  one  cares 
How  the  poor  old  mother  fares! 
You  must  struggle  on  alone; 
They  have  children  of  their  own, 
And  for  them,  devoid  of  shame, 
All  your  scanty  earnings  claim ! 
Can  you  walk?    Then  go  you  must, 
Plodding  on  through  rain  and  dust, 
Summer  heat  and  winter's  snow 
To  and  from  Menaggio! 


Christmas  Eve!    Through  glistening  green 
Gleams  a  merry,  festive  scene; 
Trees,  with  candles  burning  bright, 
Wake  in  children's  hearts  delight. 
Where  such  peace  and  comfort  reign, 
None  observes  the  window-pane, 
Where  your  wan  face  sadly  peers 
Through  a  mist  of  falling  tears 


THE   OLD    CARRIER  211 

At  a  joy  you  never  know, 
Carrier  from  Menaggio ! 


Much  that  makes  those  children  gay 
You  have  brought  them  day  by  day, 
Thankful  that  you  thus  could  earn 
Wood  to  make  your  hearthstone  burn. 
Not  for  you  such  food  and  light, 
Clothing  warm  and  candles  bright! 
You  are  grateful,  if  you  gain 
Bread  to  stifle  hunger's  pain. 
Ah !  it  was  not  always  so 
In  old-time  Menaggio ! 


She  has  turned  to  climb  the  hill. 
Stay !  why  lies  she  there  so  still  ? 
Have  her  old  limbs  failed  at  last 
In  the  chilling  wintry  blast? 
Since  for  threescore  years  and  ten 
She  has  done  the  work  of  men, 
'Tis  not  strange  that  she  should  fall 
Weak  and  helpless  by  the  wall, 
Nevermore  to  come  and  go 
To  and  from  Menaggio. 


212  THE    OLD    CARRIER 

Gently  lift  her  old  gray  head ! 
Bear  her  homeward!     She  is  dead. 
Fallen,  like  a  faithful  horse 
At  the  limit  of  its  course ; 
Fallen  on  the  stony  road, 
Uncomplaining,  'neath  her  load; 
And  the  heart  within  her  breast 
For  the  first  time  finds  its  rest, — 
Rest  that  it  could  never  know 
Coming  from  Menaggio! 

Sound  again,  O  Christmas  bells ! 

"  Peace  on  Earth  "  your  song  foretells. 

It  has  come,  in  truth,  to  one 

Whose  long  pilgrimage  is  done. 

Merciful  her  quick  release, 

Blessed  her  eternal  peace ! 

Yet  I  know  that,  day  by  day, 

As  she  no  more  comes  my  way, 

I  shall  miss  her,  as  I  go 

To  and  from  Menaggio. 


EVENING    ON    LAKE    COMO 

Beside  my  garden's  ivied  wall, 
Enwreathed  in  vines  of  gold  and  green, 
I  stand,  as  evening  shadows  fall, 
And  marvel  ^Ithe  matchless  scene, 
While  wavelets  make,  with  rhythmic  beat, 
Perpetual  music  at  my  feet. 


The  year  grows  old, — yet  on  the  breeze 
Still  floats  the  perfume  of  the  rose ; 
Still  gleams  the  gold  of  orange  trees, 
Regardless  of  the  Alpine  snows ; 
For  while,  above,  Frost  reigns  as  king, 
Below  prevails  the  warmth  of  Spring. 


In  Tremezzina's  sheltered  bay 
The  wintry  storms  forget  to  rave; 
Without, — the  white  caps  and  the  spray, 
Within, — a  shore  with  scarce  a  wave, — 
A  favored  spot  where  tempests  cease, 
And  Heaven  whispers,  "  Here  is  Peace." 


214  EVENING   ON   LAKE   COMO 

Across  the  water's  purple  bloom 
Bellagio,  bathed  in  sunset  light, 
Surmounts  the  twilight's  gathering  gloom 
With  glistening  walls  of  pink  and  white, — 
The  wraith  of  some  celestial  strand, 
The  fringe  of  an  enchanted  land. 

My  sweet- voiced  fountain  softly  sings 
Its  good-night  lyric  to  the  lake ; 
A  skiff  glides  by  on  slender  wings 
With  scarce  a  ripple  in  its  wake ; 
And  pleasure-boats,  their  canvas  furled, 
Float  idly  in  an  ideal  world. 

The  swan-like  steamers  come  and  go ; 
The  ruffled  water  finds  its  rest ; 
The  snow-peaks  catch  a  ruddy  glow 
From  crimsoned  cloudlets  in  the  west; 
And,  trembling  on  the  tranquil  air, 
Steals  forth  the  vesper-call  to  prayer. 

Oh,  peerless  strand !    I  yearn  no  more 
To  mingle  with  the  maddened  throng ; 
Enough  for  me  this  wave-kissed  shore, 
The  vesper-bell,  the  fountain's  song, 
The  sunlit  sail,  the  Alpine  glow, 
And  storied  towers  of  long  ago. 


EVENING   ON    LAKE   COMO  215 

Between  me  and  the  world's  unrest 
The  lake's  broad  leagues  of  water  lie; 
Above  my  wave-protected  nest 
Serenely  bends  a  cloudless  sky ; 
And  homeward  from  life's  stormy  sea 
The  dreams  of  youth  come  back  to  me. 


(The  only  Island  on  Lake  Como,  the  Lake  Larius  of 
the  Romans) 

There  sleeps  beneath  Italian  skies 
A  lovely  island  rich  in  fame, 
In  days  of  old  a  longed-for  prize, 
And  bearing  still  an  honored  name, — 
A  spot  renowned  from  age  to  age, 
An  ancient  Roman  heritage; 

A  valued  stronghold,  for  whose  sake 

Unnumbered  men  have  fought  and  died, — 

The  Malta  of  the  Larian  lake, 

Forever  armed  and  fortified, 

To  Como's  shores  the  master-key, 

The  guardian  of  its  liberty. 

Half  hidden  in  a  sheltered  bay, 
Where  tiny  skiffs  at  anchor  ride, 
How  different  is  the  scene  to-day 
Reflected  in  its  waveless  tide, 


2I7 


From  that  which  this  historic  foss 
Showed  mailed  soldiers  of  the  Cross! 

Yet  still,  across  the  narrow  strait, 
Some  remnants  of  the  hospice  stand, 
Whose  ever  hospitable  gate 
Met  pilgrims  from  the  Holy  Land, 
Its  finely  carved,  millennial  tower 
Enduring  to  the  present  hour. 

One  gem  alone  doth  Como  wear, 
None  other  need  adorn  her  breast ; 
Tis  this,  her  emerald  solitaire, 
Her  unique  island  of  the  blest, — 
The  star  beside  her  crescent  shore, 
A  thing  of  beauty  evermore. 

On  Comacina's  peaceful  strand 
The  coldest  heart  is  moved  to  pray, 
As  softly  steals  o'er  lake  and  land 
The  splendor  of  departing  day, 
And  scores  of  snowy  peaks  aspire 
To  sparkle  with  supernal  fire. 

Then  Lario  paints  for  liquid  miles 

The  white-robed  monarchs'  glittering  crowns, 


218  ISOLA    COMACINA 

Transmutes  at  once  to  dimpled  smiles 
The  sternest  of  their  glacial  frowns, 
And  often  holds,  with  subtlest  art, 
Some  Titan's  likeness  to  her  heart. 


Fair  Comacina,  through  whose  trees 
Earth's  feathered  songsters  flit  unharmed, 
Where  soft-eyed  cattle  graze  at  ease, 
And  every  whispering  breeze  seems  charmed, 
Can  it  be  true  that  human  blood 
Hath  ever  stained  thy  limpid  flood? 


Alas !  too  often,  drenched  with  gore, 
Thy  cliffs  have  witnessed  deadly  strife, 
When  hostile  feet  profaned  thy  shore, 
And  each  advancing  step  cost  life, 
As  prince  and  peasant,  side  by  side, 
Beat  back  the  Goths'  invading  tide. 


But  why  disturb  the  silent  past? 

Why  rouse  the  island's  sleeping  ghosts? 

Or  see  in  forms  by  ruins  cast 

The  phantoms  of  those  warlike  hosts? 

For  centuries  the  gentle  waves 

Have  rolled  oblivion  o'er  their  graves. 


ISOLA   COMACINA  219 

And  what  will  now  thy  future  be, 
Thou  pristine  refuge  of  the  brave, 
Which  Rome's  last  heroes  fought  to  free, 
And  vainly  gave  their  lives  to  save  ? 
Forget  not,  thou  wast  once  a  gem 
That  graced  a  Caesar's  diadem! 

Wilt  thou  fulfil  my  fondest  hopes? 
I  sometimes  long  to  check  the  stream 
Of  tourists  hurrying  by  thy  slopes, 
And  tell  them  of  my  cherished  dream, — 
To  see  upon  thy  storied  height 
A  palace  worthy  of  the  site ; 

Not  meaningless,  not  merely  vast, 
Nor  crudely  modern  in  design, 
But  something  suited  to  thy  past, — 
For  highest  art  a  hallowed  shrine, 
A  classic  home  of  long  ago, 
The  Tusculum  of  Cicero. 


Then  roses,  rich  in  sweet  perfume, 

Shall  wreathe  with  bloom  each  terraced  wall, 

And,  scattered  through  the  leafy  gloom 

Of  olive-groves  and  laurels  tall, 

Shall  many  a  marble  nymph  and  faun 

Grow  lovelier  from  the  flush  of  dawn. 


220  ISOLA   COMACINA 

So  let  me  dream !    I  may  not  see 
That  stately  palace  crown  thy  brow, 
Those  roses  may  not  bloom  for  me, 
But,  as  thou  art,  I  love  thee  now, 
Content  thy  future  to  resign 
To  abler  portraiture  than  mine. 

Sweet  Comacina,  fare  thee  well ! 
Across  the  water's  placid  breast 
The  music  of  the  vesper-bell 
Invites  me  to  my  port  of  rest; 
Fair  jewel  of  this  inland  sea, 
May  all  the  gods  be  good  to  thee! 


ACQUA   FREDDA 

By  Acqua  Fredda's  cloister-wall 
I  pause  to  feel  the  mountain  breeze, 
And  watch  the  shadows  eastward  fall 
From  immemorial  cypress  trees. 

Like  arms  outstretched  to  bless  and  pray, 
Those  dusky  phantoms  downward  creep 
To  where,  by  Lenno's  curving  bay, 
The  peaceful  village  seems  to  sleep; 

While  mirrored  peaks  of  stainless  snow 
Turn  crimson  'neath  the  farther  shore, 
And  here  and  there  the  sunset  glow 
Threads  diamonds  on  a  dripping  oar. 

But  now  a  tremor  breaks  the  spell, 
And  stirs  to  life  the  languid  air, — 
It  is  the  convent's  vesper-bell,— 
The  plaintive  call  to  evening  prayer; 

That  prayer  which  rises  like  a  sigh 
From  every  sorrow-laden  breast, 


222  ACQUA   FREDDA 

When  twilight  dims  the  garish  sky, 
And  day  is  dying  in  the  west. 

Ave  Maria !  we  who  miss 
A  mother's  love,  a  mother's  care, 
Implore  thee,  bring  us  to  that  bliss 
We  fondly  hope  with  thee  to  share ! 

How  sweet  and  clear,  how  soft  and  low 
Those  vesper  orisons  are  sung, 
In  Rome's  grand  speech  of  long  ago, 
Forever  old,  forever  young! 

And  those  who  chant, — that  exiled  band, 
Expelled  from  France  with  scorn  and  hate, 
How  fare  they  in  this  foreign  land  ? 
Is  life  for  them  disconsolate? 

Have  they  escaped  the  sight  of  pain, 
Of  social  strife,  of  hopeless  tears? 
Does  life's  dark  problem  grow  more  plain, 
As  pass  in  prayer  the  tranquil  years? 

I  know  not ;  dare  not  ask  of  them ; 
Their  souls  are  read  by  God  alone ; 
But  he  who  would  their  lives  condemn, 
Should  pause  before  he  cast  a  stone. 


ACQUA   FREDDA  223 

So  full  is  life  of  hate  and  greed, 
So  vain  the  world's  poor  tinselled  show, 
What  wonder  that  some  souls  have  need 
To  flee  from  all  its  sin  and  woe? 


I  would  not  join  them ;  yet,  in  truth, 
I  feel,  in  leaving  them  at  prayer, 
That  something  precious  of  my  youth, 
Long  lost  to  me,  is  treasured  there. 


THE   POSTERN  GATE 

I  chose  me  a  lovely  garden, 
Beneath  whose  ivied  wall 
A  lake's  blue  wavelets  murmur 
As  evening  shadows  fall, — 


A  garden,  whose  leafy  windows 
Frame  visions  of  Alpine  snow 
On  peaks  that  burn  to  crimson 
In  sunset's  afterglow. 


And  there,  in  its  sweet  seclusion, 
I  built  me  a  mansion  fair, 
With  many  a  classic  statue 
And  Eastern  relic  rare, 


And  volumes,  whose  precious  pages 
Hold  all  that  the  wise  have  said, — 
The  latest  among  the  living, 
The  greatest  among  the  dead. 


THE   POSTERN   GATE  225 

And  I  sat  in  those  fragrant  arbors 
Of  laurel  and  palm  and  pine, 
And  held  in  the  tranquil  twilight 
My  darling's  hand  in  mine; 


And  said  "  We  will  here  be  happy, 
And  let  the  mad  world  go; 
Its  gold  no  longer  tempts  us, 
Still  less  do  its  pomp  and  show; 


"  No  more  shall  its  cares  annoy  us, 
And  under  these  stately  trees 
With  Nature  and  Art  and  Letters 
Our  souls  shall  take  their  ease." 


But  a  brood  of  griefs  pursued  us, 
Like  evil  birds  of  prey; 
They  lodged  in  the  trees'  tall  branches, 
They  shadowed  the  cloudless  day; 


They  flew  to  the  darkened  casement, 
And  beat  on  the  wind-swept  shade, 
And  oft  in  the  sleepless  midnight 
We  listened  and  were  afraid; 


226  THE    POSTERN   GATE 

And  daily  came  the  tidings 
Of  folly  and  crime  and  woe, 
And  one  by  one  kept  dying 
The  friends  of  long  ago. 


For  the  Past  is  ever  one's  master, 
And  Memory  mocks  at  space, 
And  Trouble  travels  with  us, 
However  swift  our  pace ; 


And  envy  is  always  envy, 
Though  called  by  a  foreign  name, 
And  perfidy,  greed,  and  malice 
Are  everywhere  the  same. 


I  thought  I  had  left  behind  me 
That  gloomy  realm  of  care, 
But  really  one  never  leaves  it, 
Its  shadow  is  everywhere. 


So  I  learned  at  last  the  lesson 
That  walls,  and  gates,  and  keys 
Can  never  exclude  life's  sorrows; 
They  enter  as  they  please. 


THE    POSTERN   GATE  227 

And  if  we  ever  acquire 
The  perfect  life  we  crave, 
A  subtle  warning  tells  us 
Its  background  is  the  grave. 


Perhaps  I  have  almost  reached  it, 
For  when  I  am  walking  late, 
I  see  a  shrouded  stranger 
Beside  my  postern  gate; 


And  a  sudden  chill  creeps  o'er  me 
At  sight  of  that  figure  grim, 
For  I  fancy  that  he  is  waiting 
For  me  in  the  twilight  dim; 


And  I  know  he  will  one  day  beckon 
.With  gesture  of  command, 
And  I  shall  follow  him  mutely 
Away  to  the  Silent  Land, 


And  all  that  I  here  have  treasured 
In  fountain,  and  tree,  and  stone 
Will  pass  to  the  hands  of  others, 
Whom  I  have  never  known. 


228  THE    POSTERN    GATE 

Hence  over  his  sombre  features 
There  flickers  a  ghostly  smile, 
As  if  he  would  say,  "  What  matter? 
Your  cares  are  not  worth  while ; 

"  The  trouble  which  gives  you  anguish, 
The  woes  o'er  which  you  weep, 
Will  all  be  soon  forgotten 
In  my  long,  dreamless  sleep. 

"  Enjoy  the  fleeting  moment ; 

I  cannot  always  wait, 

And  the  glow  of  the  coming  sunset 

Is  gilding  the  postern  gate." 


JANUARY    IN    THE   TREMEZZINA 

Day  by  day, 

As  if  in  May, 
.We  sail  Azzano's  beautiful  bay; 

High  and  low 

The  mountains  show 
Luminous  fields  of  stainless  snow, 
But  the  air  is  soft,  and  the  sun  is  warm, 
And  the  lake  is  free  from  wind  and  storm. 

Far  and  nigH, 

Deep  and  high, 
The  Alps  invade  both  lake  and  sky; 

Base  to  base 

Their  forms  we  trace, 
These  in  water,  those  in  space, — 
Duplicate  peaks  on  single  shores, 
As  shadow  sinks,  and  substance  soars. 

To  and  fro 
We  idly  go, 
Bidding  our  oarsmen  lightly  row; 


230      JANUARY   IN   THE   TREMEZZINA 

Here  and  there 

Halting  where 

The  vision  seems  supremely  fair; 
Happy  to  let  our  little  boat 
In  a  flood  of  opaline  splendor  float. 


Far  away 

Seems  to-day 
The  clamorous  world  of  work  and  play; 

Ours  indeed 

A  different  creed 

From  that  of  the  modern  god  of  Speed, 
Whose  converts  suffer  such  grievous  waste 
In  strenuous  labor  and  feverish  haste! 

East  or  west, 

A  tranquil  nest, 
When  curfew  rings,  is  always  best, 

A  landscape  fair, 

A  volume  rare, 

And  a  kindred  heart,  one's  peace  to  share, — 
What  is  there  better  from  life  to  take 
In  a  sweet  retreat  on  the  Larian  lake? 


THE    WANDERER 

Wandering  minstrel  at  my  gate, 
Shivering  in  the  winter  gloaming, 
How  appalling  seems  your  fate, — 
Destined  to  be  always  roaming, 
Singing  for  a  bit  of  bread 
And  a  shelter  for  your  head ! 


Your  sweet  voice  is  all  you  own, 

Save  the  poor,  thin  clothes  you're  wearing, 

And  you  are  not  quite  alone, 

For  a  dog  your  crust  is  sharing; 

Yet  o'er  many  a  weary  mile 

You  have  brought  ....  a  song  and  smile! 


I,  who  have  abundant  land, 
Home  with  comforts  beyond  measure, 
Gardens,  loggias,  and  a  strand 
Where  a  boat  awaits  my  pleasure, 
Wonder  what  would  be  your  story, 
Were  I  tramp,  and  you  signore! 


232  THE   WANDERER 

Would  you  weary  of  control? 
Long  to  slip  your  gilded  tether, 
And  with  Leo  once  more  stroll, 
Heedless  of  the  wind  and  weather? 
You  could  hardly  do  that  all, 
Once  ensconced  behind  my  wall. 

Every  one  must  make  a  choice, 
Life  is  based  on  compensation; 
You  have  nothing  but  your  voice, 
I  have  more,  .  .  .  but  more  vexation! 
Minstrel,  you  at  least  are  free; 
Give  your  smile  to  slaves  like  me ! 


A    FRAGMENT 

Under  my  wall 

And  plane-tree  tall 
The  lake's  blue  wavelets  rise  and  fall; 

In  they  creep, 

Out  they  sweep, 

And  ever  their  rhythmic  measure  keep, 
As  the  light  breeze  over  the  water  steals, 
And  fills  the  sails  of  a  score  of  keels. 

Soft  and  low, 

In  the  evening  glow, 
Murmurs  the  fountain's  ceaseless  flow; 

Clear  and  sweet, 

Fair  and  fleet, 

It  came  from  the  mountain,  the  lake  to  meet, 
And  here,  where  ivy  and  roses  twine, 
Streamlet  and  lake  their  lives  combine. 

One  by  one, 
In  shade  or  sun, 
Each  river  of  life  its  course  must  run; 


234  A   FRAGMENT 

Slow  or  fast,, 

Small  or  vast, 

All  come  to  the  waiting  sea  at  last, — 
The  source  from  which  they  first  arose, 
The  home  in  which  they  find  repose. 


"CONJUGI    CARISSIMAE" 

Marble  fragment,  freed  at  last 
From  thy  prison  of  the  past, 
By  a  spade-thrust  brought  to  light 
After  centuries  of  night, — 
Let  me  take  thee  in  my  hand, 
And  thy  legend  understand. 

On  thy  mutilated  face 

It  is  difficult  to  trace 

All  that  once  was  graven  here; 

But  at  least  two  words  are  clear, — 

Reading  still,  as  all  agree, 

"Conjugi  Carissimae." 

"To  my  well-beloved  wife"; — 
Only  this;  but  of  her  life, 
Rank  or  title,  age  or  name, 
Or  the  place  from  which  she  came, 
Nothing  further  can  be  known 
Than  is  taught  us  by  this  stone. 


236  "CONJUGI    CARISSIMAE" 

Touching  words  they  are,  which  tell 

Of  a  husband's  last  farewell; 

Cry  of  a  despairing  heart 

That  has  seen  a  wife  depart 

On  death's  dark,  uncharted  sea; — 

"  Conjugi  Carissimae!" 

Was  this  lady  still  a  bride, 
Or  a  matron,  when  she  died? 
Had  she  children?     Was  she  fair? 
Bright  with  joy,  or  bowed  with  care? 
Ah,  pathetic  mystery! 
"  Conjugi  Carissimae." 

Yet,  in  truth,  what  matters  all, 
Save  the  fact  these  words  recall? 
She  was  loved, — a  consort  mourned 
In  the  home  she  had  adorned; 
And  her  husband  long  ago 
Left  the  words  which  tell  us  so. 


Strange,  that  these  alone  remain, — 
Words  of  mingled  love  and  pain! 
Time,  which  broke  or  blurred  the  rest, 
Tenderly  has  spared  the  best; 
For  what  better  could  there  be? 
"Conjugi  Carissimae." 


"CONJUGI    CARISSIMAE"  237 

Ancient  relic,  white  and  pure, 
May  thine  epitaph  endure, 
While  the  lake  with  dimpled  smile 
Mirrors  this  historic  isle! 
Precious  are  thy  words  of  old, 
Worthy  of  a  script  of  gold! 

Soon  upon  this  island's  shrine 
Shalt  thou  like  a  jewel  shine, — 
Dearest  of  its  treasure-trove, 
Emblem  of  a  deathless  love 
From  its  sepulchre  set  free, — 
"Conjugi  Carissimae." 


THE   CASCADE, 

From  the  mountain  gray 

It  has  made  its  way 
To  my  garden  green  and  cool, 

And  there,  from  the  edge 

Of  a  rocky  ledge 
Leaps  down  to  a  crystal  pool. 


With  a  plunging  flash 

It  falls,  to  dash 
That  crystal  into  foam; 

And  then  at  a  bound 

Slips  under  ground 
To  the  lake, — its  final  home. 


In  the  morning  light, 

In  the  silent  night, 
When  the  moonlight  gems  the  scene, 

It  laughs  and  sings, 

And  a  light  spray  flings 
O'er  stately  walls  of  green. 


THE    CASCADE  239 

For  in  and  out, 

And  round  about, 
Grow  flowers,  and  plants,  and  trees, 

From  the  lowly  moss 

To  the  boughs  that  toss 
Their  leaves  in  the  passing  breeze. 

On  its  outer  zone 

Of  massive  stone 
Two  marble  statues  stand, — 

The  silver  sheen 

Of  the  pool  between, — 
One  form  on  either  hand. 

One  of  the  pair 

Is  a  woman  fair, 
With  parted,  smiling  lips; 

For  her  each  hour 

A  honied  flower, 
And  she  the  bee  that  sips. 

The  other,  a  faun, 

From  whom  is  gone 
The  power  to  frankly  smile; 

For  whom  each  day, 

As  it  drags  away, 
Makes  life  still  less  worth  while. 


240  THE   CASCADE 

The  face  of  the  one 

Is  like  the  sun, 
With  its  warmth,  and  light,  and  cheer; 

But  the  faun  looks  down 

With  ugly  frown, 
And  his  lips  retain  a  sneer. 

Youth  and  age, 

Child  and  sage! 
The  former  with  life  unknown; 

The  latter  burnt 

By  lessons  learnt, 
With  a  heart  now  turned  to  stone. 

Yet  the  torrent  speeds, 

And  never  heeds 
The  statues'  smiles  or  sneers; 

They  come  and  go, 

But  the  water's  flow 
Has  lasted  a  thousand  years. 

On  sweeps  life's  stream, 

Like  a  troubled  dream, 
And  what,  indeed,  are  we 

But  drops  of  spray 

That  are  tossed  away, 
As  the  river  runs  to  the  sea? 


INFLUENCE 

We  know  not  what  mysterious  power 
Lies  latent  in  our  words  and  deeds, — 
Sweet  as  the  perfume  of  a  flower, 
Strong-  as  the  life  that  sleeps  in  seeds; 
But  something  certainly  survives 
The  passing  of  our  fleeting  lives. 


A  look,  a  pressure  of  the  hand, 
A  sign  of  hope,  a  song  of  cheer, 
May  journey  over  sea  and  land, 
Outliving  many  a  sterile  year, 
To  find  at  last  the  destined  hour 
When  they  shall  leap  to  bud  and  flower. 


We  write,  we  print,  then — nevermore 
To  be  recalled — our  thoughts  take  flight, 
Like  white-winged  birds  that  leave  the  shore, 
And  scattering,  lose  themselves  in  light; 
For  good  or  ill  those  words  may  be 
The  arbiters  of  destiny. 


242  INFLUENCE 

Perchance  some  fervid  plea  may  find 

A  heart  to  rise  to  its  appeal ; 

Some  statement  rouse  a  dormant  mind, 

Or  stir  a  spirit,  quick  to  feel; 

Nay,  through  some  note  of  gentler  tone 

Even  love  may  recognize  its  own. 

Fain  would  I  deem  not  wholly  dead 
The  spoken  words  of  former  years, 
And  every  printed  page,  when  read, 
A  source  of  smiles,  instead  of  tears; 
That  friends,  whom  I  shall  never  see, 
May,  for  a  time,  remember  me. 


POINT  BALBIANELLO 

From  Lake  Como's  depths  ascending, 

With  embankments  steep 

Stands  a  wooded  headland,  bending 

With  majestic  sweep 

Till  its  rugged  shores,  expanding, 

Join  two  charming  bays, 

Now,  as  formerly,  commanding 

Universal  praise. 


Years  ago  a  papal  Primate 

Built  a  hospice  here, 

Which,  from  its  delightful  climate, 

Mild  throughout  the  year, 

Soon  became  for  convalescence 

A  renowned  retreat, 

Where  pure  air  and  strict  quiescence 

Made  all  cures  complete. 


"  Villa  Balbi  ",— appellation 
Of  the  Primate's  seat — , 


244  POINT   BALBIANELLO 

Gave  its  name  to  this  location 

In  a  form  more  sweet, — 

Soft,  sonorous  "  Balbianello  ", 

Spoken,  as  if  sung 

In  the  speech,  so  smooth  and  mellow, 

Of  the  Latin  tongue. 

Balbianello,  Balbianello ! 

Point  of  liquid  name, 

With  thy  walls  of  golden  yellow 

And  thy  flowers  of  flame, 

When  thy  varied  charms  enthrall  me 

Under  summer  skies, 

Tenderly  I  love  to  call  thee 

Como's  Paradise. 

From  thy  base,  where  in  profusion 

Countless  roses  bloom, 

To  thy  crest,  where  sweet  seclusion 

Reigns  in  leafy  gloom, 

All  is  beauty,  uncontested 

By  a  rival  claim, 

All  is  symmetry  invested 

With  a  storied  fame. 


Cool  the  paths,  by  plane-trees  shaded, 
Which  thy  slopes  ascend; 


POINT   BALBIANELLO  245 

Grand  the  loggia,  old  and  faded, 
Where  those  pathways  end; — 
Noble  arches,  well  recalling 
Mighty  works  of  old, 
Columns  which,  when  night  is  falling, 
Turn  to  shafts  of  gold. 

In  that  loggia,  fringed  with  roses, 
All  my  soul  expands ; 
Every  arch  a  view  discloses 
Of  historic  lands ; 
Southward  lies  fair  Comacina, 
Famed  in  classic  lore, 
Northward  Pliny's  Tremezzina 
And  Bellagio's  shore. 

Miles  of  liquid  opalescence 

Stretch  on  either  hand, 

Curving  into  lovely  crescents, 

Each  with  sylvan  strand; 

While  on  Alpine  peaks  lie  sleeping 

Realms  of  stainless  snow, 

Whence  the  milk-white  streams  come  leaping 

To  the  lake  below. 

Many  a  far-off  promontory 
Melts  in  silvery  haze, 


246  POINT    BALBIANELLO 

Many  a  scene  of  song  and  story 

Tells  of  Roman  days ; 

Real  and  unreal,  past  and  present, 

Make  the  vision  seem 

Like  the  rapture  evanescent 

Of  a  happy  dream. 


Yet  this  point,  so  well  selected, — 

Peerless  in  its  day — , 

Now,  abandoned  and  neglected, 

Sinks  to  slow  decay; 

Sculptured  saints,  with  broken  fingers, 

Line  the  ancient  walls, 

Like  a  loyal  guard  that  lingers 

Till  the  rampart  falls ; 

Vases,  o'er  the  portal  standing, 

Crumble  into  lime; 

Steps,  ascending  from  the  landing, 

Show  the  touch  of  time ; 

And  its  one  lone  gardener,  weeping 

As  he  tells  his  fears, 

Faithful  watch  has  here  been  keeping 

Many,  many  years! 

Even  he  must  leave  it  lonely, 
When  the  night  grows  late ; 


POINT   BALBIANELLO  247 

Then  the  mouldering  statues  only 

Guard  its  rusty  gate ; 

Then  no  eye  its  charm  discovers, 

And  its  moonlit  bowers 

Wait  in  vain  for  happy  lovers 

Through  the  silent  hours. 

Will  no  champion  protect  thee, 
Fairest  spot  on  earth  ? 
Does  a  busy  world  neglect  thee, 
Careless  of  thy  worth? 
Even  so,  thy  site  elysian 
Still  remains  supreme, — 
Acme  of  the  painter's  vision 
And  the  poet's  dream. 


AT  LENNO 

By  Lake  Como's  sylvan  shore, 
Where  the  wavelets  evermore 

Seem  to  rhythmically  murmur  of  the  classic  days  of 
yore, 

Cease,  O  boatman,  now  to  row ! 
While  the  Alpine  summits  glow, 
Let  me  dream  that  I  am  floating  on  the  lake  of  long 
ago. 

Where  the  Tremezzina  ends, 
And  the  bay  of  Lenno  bends 

Till  the  shadow  of  the  mountain  to  its  placid  wave 
descends, 

On  this  strand  of  silver  foam 
Stood  the  Younger  Pliny's  home, 
When  the  world  at  last  lay  subject  to  the  dominance 
of  Rome. 


Here  he  passed  his  sweetest  hours 
'Mid  his  statues,  books,  and  flowers 
With  a  life  and  list  of  pleasures  not  dissimilar  to  ours, 


AT   LENNO  249 

For  the  city's  rush  and  roar 
Never  reached  this  tranquil  shore, 
And  his  writings  prove  completely  that  he  yearned  for 
them  no  more. 


Here,  as  scholar,  poet,  sage, 
He  filled  many  a  pliant  page 

With  the  philosophic  wisdom  and  refinement  of  his 
age, 

And  his  letters  to  his  peers 
Through  a  life  of  smiles  and  tears 
Make   me   often  quite   forgetful   of   the   intervening 
years ; 

For  the  beauty  of  the  bay 
And  the  magical  display 

Of  its  coronet  of  mountains  have  not  altered  since  his 
day, 

And  the  lake  of  which  he  wrote 
At  that  epoch  so  remote 

With  the  same  caressing  murmur  laps  my  undulating 
boat. 

Hence  the  subtle,  tender  spell 
Of  the  place  he  loved  so  well 

Holds   me   captive   and   enchanted,   as   these   waters 
gently  swell, 


250  AT   LENNO 

And  a  vague  and  nameless  pain 
Makes  me  long  for, — though  in  vain — , 
That  delightful  classic  era,  which  will  never  come 
again. 

Since  the  Goths*  invading  tide 
Wrecked  Rome's  potency  and  pride, 
Something  wonderful   has   vanished,   something   ex- 
quisite has  died; 

And  in  spite  of  modern  fame 
And  the  lustre  of  its  name, 

Even  beautiful  Lake  Como  can  be  never  quite  the 
same. 

So  beside  its  sylvan  shore, 
Where  the  wavelets  evermore 

Seem  to  rythmically  murmur  of  the  classic  days  of 
yore, 

Cease,  O  boatman,  now  to  row! 
For,  while  Alpine  summits  glow, 
I  would  dream  that  I  am  floating  on  the  lake  of  long 
ago. 


WAKEFULNESS 

Drifting,  idly  drifting,  where  thought's  varied  streams 
Meet  at  last  and  mingle  in  the  realm  of  dreams, 
Gladly  would  I  join  them  in  oblivion's  deep! 

Sleep,  so  dear  to  me, 

Sleep,  come  near  to  me, 

Sleep,  sweet  sleep! 


Toward  the  night's  Nirvana  groping  for  the  way, 
Striving,  ever  striving  to  forget  the  day, 
Waves  of  dreamless  slumber,  o'er  my  spirit  creep! 
Sleep,  so  dear  to  me, 
Sleep,  come  near  to  me, 
Sleep,  sweet  sleep! 


By  the  stream  of  Lethe,  fettered  to  the  brink, 
Longing  for  the  breaking  of  the  last,  frail  link, 
Eager  for  its  billows  o'er  my  mind  to  sweep, 
Sleep,  so  dear  to  me, 
Sleep,  come  near  to  me, 
Sleep,  sweet  sleep! 


252  WAKEFULNESS 

Waiting,  ever  waiting  for  thy  soothing  call, 
And  the  welcome  darkness  that  envelops  all, 
If  no  more  to  waken,  then  no  more  to  weep, 
Sleep,  so  dear  to  me, 
Sleep,  come  near  to  me, 
Sleep,  sweet  sleep! 


PERSONALLY   ADDRESSED 


To 

HON.    JESSE  HOLDOM    OF    CHICAGO, 

on  receipt  of  his  picture 
and  that  of  his  baby  in  his  arms. 


Far  from  the  great  lake's  pride, 
Over  the  ocean  vast, 

Two  faces  picture,  side  by  side, 
The  future  and  the  past. 


On  one  is  the  flush  of  dawn 

And  the  light  of  the  morning  star; 
On  the  other  a  shade,  from  knowledge  drawn 

And  the  dusk  of  the  sunset  bar. 


One  brow  has  the  spotless  sweep 

Of  a  page  that  is  white  and  fair ; 

The  other  forehead  is  graven  deep 
With  lines  of  thought  and  care. 


256  TO    HON.    JESSE    HOLDOM 

The  eyes  of  the  child  look  out 

On  a  world  all  pure  and  sweet; 

But  those  of  the  man  are  sad  from  doubt 
And  a  knowledge  of  men's  deceit. 


To  the  baby's  dainty  ears 

Love's  accents  only  flow; 
Through  the  man's  alas !  have  surged  for  years 

Stories  of  crime  and  woe. 


Held  in  the  infant's  grasp 

Is  a  tiny,  lifeless  toy; 
In  the  father's  firm  yet  tender  clasp 

Is  his  last  great  hope, — his  boy ! 


Wisely  the  parent  peers 

Through  the  future's  unknown  skies, 
For  knowledge  of  life  has  awakened  fears 

Of  the  storms  that  may  arise 


When  his  darling  boy  no  more 

Can  cling  to  his  father's  breast, 

But  when  on  the  strand  of  the  silent  shore 
That  father  shall  be  at  rest. 


TO    HON     JESSE   HOLDOM  257 

Ah  me !  could  the  wisdom  won 

Through  the  father's  fateful  years 

Be  but  transmitted  to  the  son, 

There  were  little  need  for  fears. 


But  each  must  tread  alone 

The  wine-press  of  his  life; 
Into  each  cup  by  Fate  is  thrown 

The  bitter  drops  of  strife. 

Forth  from  that  fond  embrace 

Must  the  little  stranger  go; 
For  the  rising  sun  must  mount  through  space. 

And  the  waning  sun  sink  low. 


LINES 
written  for  a  Golden  Wedding,  1883 

Just  fifty  years  ago  to-night, 

When  earth  was  mantled  deep  with  snow, 
The  stars  beheld  with  tender  light 

The  fairest  scene  this  world  can  show. 

Two  graceful  forms  stood  side  by  side, 

Two  trembling  hands  were  clasped  as  one, 

Two  hearts  exchanged  perpetual  faith, 
And  love's  sweet  poem  was  begun. 

For  suns  may  rise  and  suns  may  set, 

And  tides  may  ebb  and  tides  may  flow, 

Love  is  man's  greatest  blessing  yet, 
And  honest  wedlock  makes  it  so. 

"  Father  "  and  "  Mother  ", — sweetest  words 
That  human  lips  can  ever  frame, 

We  gather  here  as  children  now 

To  find  your  loving  hearts  the  same. 


LINES    FOR   A   GOLDEN  WEDDING     259 

Unchanged,  unchangeable  by  time, 

Your  love  is  boundless  as  the  sea; 

The  same  as  when  our  childish  griefs 

Were  hushed  beside  our  mother's  knee. 


Years  may  have  given  us  separate  homes, 
Friends,  children,  happiness  and  fame, 

But  oh!  to-night  our  greatest  wealth 
Is  that  we  call  you  still  by  name. 

God  bless  you  both !  for  fifty  years 

You've  journeyed  onward  side  by  side: 

And  still,  for  years  to  come,  God  grant 
Your  paths  may  nevermore  divide; 

But,  just  as  sunset's  golden  glow 

Makes  Alpine  snows  divinely  fair, 

So  may  the  setting  sun  of  life 

Rest  lightly  on  your  silvered  hair! 

Yes,  suns  may  rise  and  suns  may  set, 

And  tides  may  ebb  and  tides  may  flow, 

We  are  your  loving  children  yet, 
And  time  will  ever  prove  us  so. 


IN    MEMORIAM.     G.    M.    M. 

His  letter  lies  before  me  here, 
Scarce  written  ere  the  hand  grew  cold 
That  traced  the  lines  so  fine  and  clear, 
Which  still  of  love  and  friendship  told. 


This  fragile  film  of  black  and  white, — 
A  traveller  over  land  and  sea — , 
Is  all  the  bond  I  have  to-night 
Between  the  friend  I  loved  and  me. 


I  know  not  where  his  form  may  rest, 
Yet  well  I  know  Death  cannot  take 
His  memory  from  the  Central  West 
And  its  proud  city  by  the  lake. 


But  where  are  now  his  loyal  soul, 
His  loving  heart  and  gifted  mind ; 
Do  they  survive — a  conscious  whole — 
The  dwelling  they  have  left  behind  ? 


IN   MEMORIAM.     G.    M.    M.  261 

Beyond  this  tiny  orb  we  tread 
Who  can  the  spirit's  pathway  trace, 
Or  find  a  haven  for  our  dead 
In  seas  of  interstellar  space? 

O  silent  stars,  that  flash  and  burn 
Across  the  bridgeless  vault  of  blue, 
Ye  may  receive,  but  ne'er  return, 
The  dead  we  sadly  yield  to  you. 

In  vain  we  urge  the  old  request; 
In  vain  the  darkness  we  explore; 
Light  lie  the  turf  above  thy  breast, 
O  friend,  whom  I  shall  see  no  more! 


Sent  with  a  Copy  of 
"  Red  Letter  Days  Abroad  " 

to 
J.    C.   Y. 

Book  of  my  youth,  I  send  thee  to  a  friend 
Met,  comprehended,  loved,  alas !  too  late, — 
Too  near  the  sad,  inevitable  end 
Decreed  by  life's  inexorable  fate; 
Yet  though  an  ocean's  billows  roll  between, 
And  two  great  continents  our  paths  divide, 
The  unseen  subtly  triumphs  o'er  the  seen, 
We  walk  in  spirit,  ever  side  by  side ; 
He  on  the  stately  Mississippi's  shore, 
I  'mid  the  snow  and  roses  of  Tyrol, 
But  in  my  heart  he  dwells  forevermore, — 
Beloved  friend,  and  double  of  my  soul. 


TO  C  .... 

Behind  a  laughing  waterfall 
There  lies  a  little  fount  of  tears, 
Deep,  dark,  and  rarely  seen  at  all 
By  those  the  sparkling  torrent  cheers. 


Beneath  a  suit  of  armour  bright, 
Shaft-proof  and  burnished,  hard  and  cold, 
There  beats,  concealed  from  common  sight, 
A  tender  woman's  heart  of  gold ! 


To  Mr.  and  Mrs.  A.  H.  S.,  Brussels 
BIRDS   OF   PASSAGE 

Two  homeless  birds,  fatigued  by  flight, 
Have  rested  on  the  Belgian  shore; 
And  now,  at  the  approach  of  night, 
Must  spread  their  wings,  and  fly  once  more. 


Two  others,  when  they  saw  them  come 
From  out  the  dark  and  stormy  west, 
Conveyed  them  to  their  pleasant  home, 
And  fed  and  warmed  them,  breast  to  breast. 


Dear  Birds  of  Brussels,  do  not  crave 
The  long,  long  route  by  which  we  came ; 
More  safe  than  any  restless  wave 
The  sheltered  nest  of  Auderghem. 


Henceforth,  however  far  we  roam, 
'Neath  clouds  that  chill,  or  suns  that  burn, 


BIRDS    OF    PASSAGE  265 

The  memory  of  your  lovely  home 
Will  make  us  certain  to  return. 


For,  stronger  than  the  subtle  spell 
That  homeward  draws  the  carrier-dove, 
Are  the  sweet  bonds  that  clearly  tell 
Of  Friendship  welded  into  Love. 


TRANSLATIONS 


THE   KISS   TO   THE   FLAG 

Ta  ra!     Boom  boom!     A  regiment  is  coming 

the  street; 
And  from  all  sides  an  eager  throng  is  hurryin 

greet 
>m    overflowing    sidewalk    and    densely    cro\\ 

square, 
A  brilliant,  uniformed  cortege  whose  music  fills  the 

air; 

For  such  a  gorgeous  spectacle  is  not  seen  every  day; 
It  gives  the  town  a  festival  to  view  the  fine  array; 
All  hearts  are  filled  with  happiness,  and  no  one  seems 

to  lag, 
When  he  has  thus  a  chance  to  see  the  soldiers  .... 

and  the  flag. 

The  old  retired  officers,  their  hats  like  helmets  worn, 
Have  thrust  them  gaily  on  one  side  at  sound  of  drum 

and  horn; 

The  eldest,  whose  brave  heart  is  stirred  by  the  fa- 
miliar strain, 
Mounts,  with  a  stifled  sigh,  his  chair,  a  better  view 

to  gain; 


270  THE    KISS   TO    THE   FLAG 

Cafes,    salons,   mansards   alike   their   windows    open 

throw, 
And  pretty  girls  wear  radiant  smiles   to  greet  the 

passing  show. 
Ah,  here  they  are!     Yes,  here  they  come!  preceded 

by  the  boys, 

Who  imitate  in  fashion  droll,  yet  with  no  actual  noise, 
But  merely  by  the  movements  of  finger  or  of  hand, 
The  cymbals,  flute,  and  (above  all)  the  trombones  of 

the  band. 
The  babies  even  laugh  and  crow,  upheld  in  nurses' 

arms, 

And  have  no  fear  of  trumpets   loud,   or  the   bass- 
drum's   alarms. 
The  pavement  of  the  boulevard  is  struck  in  perfect 

time; 
Six  hundred  echoes  blend  in  one,  and  make  the  scene 

sublime ; 
Six  hundred  hearts  are  throbbing  there,  thrilled  with 

a  common  pride; 
Twelve  hundred  feet  with  rythmic  beat  make  but  a 

single  stride. 
United,  too,  are  all  the  hearts  of  those  whose  eyes 

pursue 

With  admiration  every  line  now  passing  in  review. 
But  when  a  gallant  regiment  appears  thus  on  parade, 
A  little  vain  of  its  fine  looks,  and  conscious  of  its 

grade, 


THE    KISS  TO   THE   FLAG  271 

Each  soldier,   (since  a  time  of  peace  allows  him  to 

be  gay), 

Aspires  to  be  attentive  to  the  ladies  on  the  way, 
And  stares  at  every  pretty  face,  with  no  wish  to  be 

rude, 
But,    then,    you    know,    a    regiment    is    never    quite 

....  a  prude! 
And  this  explains  why   Captain   Short   has   said   to 

Captain  Tall, 
Despite  the  order  which  enjoins  strict  silence  upon  all, 

"  A  lovely  girl !  "  "  Is  that  so  ?  Where  ?  "  "  Be- 
side the  window  there." 

"  By  Jove !  I'd  like  to  know  her.  She  is  divinely 

fair!" 

Then  both  a  little  thoughtfully  move  on  with  some 

regret, 

And  now  the  entire  regiment  the  lovely  girl  has  met ; 

Across  the  broad,  resplendent  ranks  she  looks  now 

left,  now  right, 

Now  straight  before  her,  but  as  yet  no  smiles  her 

features  light; 

More  than  one  mounted  officer,  with  flashing  sabre, 

wheels 

His  well-groomed  horse,  and  calls  to  him  the  ser- 
geant at  his  heels; 


272  THE    KISS   TO   THE   FLAG 

And  makes  excuse  of  some  detail,   endeavoring  the 

while, 
Perhaps   half    consciously,    to   win    the    favor    of    a 

smile. 
In  vain;  the  glance  he  hopes  to  gain,  as  hero  of  her 

heart, 
Comes  not;  but  rank  forbids  delay,  he  must  at  once 

depart. 
The     Colonel     even    has    remarked    this     charming 

thoughtful  girl, 
And  gives  to  his  fine  gray  moustache  the  customary 

twirl ; 
A  handsome  man,  with  uniform  whose  gilded  lustre 

shines 
From    clanking    spur    to    epaulette    with    stars    and 

golden  lines ; 
He  knows  how  potent  is  the   spell   such   ornaments 

impart 
To  make   of  soldiers   demi-gods   in  woman's   gentle 

heart. 
"The  Flag!     The  Flag!"     The  crowd  is  thrilled  to 

see  it  now  advance! 
Hail,   Colors   of  the   Fatherland!     Hail,   Banner  of 

Fair  France! 
Hail,  wounded  emblem  of  the  brave;  blood-red,  and 

heaven's  blue, 
And  purest  white, — the  noble  Flag,  now  waving  in 

our  view! 


THE   KISS  TO   THE   FLAG  273 

Standard  sublime,  that  moves  all  hearts,  as  now  thy 

form  unrolls, 

Our  dead  seem  shrouded  in  thy  folds,  stirred  by  the 

breath  of  souls! 

The  color-bearer,  young1  as  Hope,  and  still  a  charm- 
ing boy, 

In  rythm   to  the   beating  hearts   and   symphony   of 

joy, 

Sways  gently,  as  he  bears  it  on,  the  emblem  of  a 

land 

Whose  sons  will  in  united  ranks  all  enemies  with- 
stand. 

The  young  lieutenant,  on  whose  face  the  standard's 

shadow  falls, 

Knows  well  it  makes  him  pass  admired  between 

those  human  walls, 

And  that  its  presence  lifts  him  high  above  the  rank 

and  file, 

And  gains  for  him  a  sentiment  worth  many  a  pretty 

smile. 

"  That  girl  has  smiled  ",  the  Colonel  thinks,  "  but  on 

whom?  Who  can  tell?'* 

"  It  is  the  bearer  of  the  flag,  on  whom  her  favor 

fell  ", 

Exclaims  the  Captain,  who  then  adds,  "  Great  Heav- 
ens! worse  than  this, 

"  She  has  not  only  smiled,  but  now  she  really  throws 

a  kiss ! " 


274  THE   KISS   TO   THE   FLAG 

The  Colonel,  somewhat  bent  with  years,  sits  up  and 

swells  his  chest; 

"  A  charming  girl "  a  sergeant  cries,  and  tries  to 

look  his  best; 

Each  soldier,  if  a  comrade  laughs,  a  rival  seems  to 

fear; 

The  chief  of  a  battalion  looks,  and  makes  his  charger 

rear. 

While  several  soldiers  have  assumed  an  air  of  mar- 
tial pride, 

The  color-bearer,  whom  the  band  has  quite  elec- 
trified, 

Caresses  with  a  trembling  hand  the  down  upon  his 

lip, 

In  doing  which  he  rashly  lets  the  tattered  "banner  dip. 

But  she  has  seen  within  its  folds,  thus  torn  with 

shell  and  shot, 

The  soul  of  one  she  dearly  loved,  who,  dead  at 

Gravelotte, 

Returned  no  more,  but  sleeps  to-day  within  an  un- 
known grave  

The  maiden's  kiss  was  for  the  Flag,  the  death-shroud 

of  the  brave. 


(Translated  from  the  poem  by 

Jean  Aicard, 
entitled  "Le  Baiser  au  Drapeau".) 


AUTUMN 

O'er  the  sea  the  storks  have  started 
On  their  flight  toward  Egypt's  shore; 
Swallows  long  ago  departed, 
And  the  lark  sings  now  no  more. 


By  the  wind,  which  sighs  in  sadness, 
Autumn's  latest  leaves  are  strewn, 
And  the  Summer's  days  of  gladness 
Have  alas!  forever  flown. 


Clouds  and  mists  the  woodlands  banish; 
Lost  is  now  their  leafy  green; 
Soon  in  gloom  will  likewise  vanish 
All  the  landscape's  lovely  sheen. 


Yet  through*  one  small  cloud-rift  streaming 
Come  the  sun's  resistless  rays, 
Over  hill  and  valley  beaming, 
Like  the  light  of  happier  days; 


276  AUTUMN 

Till  the  woods  such  lustre  borrow, 
That  to  this  fond  faith  we  cling, — 
Back  of  all  the  Winter's  sorrow 
Lies  a  far-off  day  of  Spring. 


(From  the  German.) 


SERENADE  TO   NINON 

Ninon,  Ninon,  what  life  canst  thou  be  leading? 

Swift  glide  its  hours,  and  day  succeeds  to  day; 

How  dost  thou  live,  still  deaf  to  Love's  sweet  plead- 
ing? 

To-night's  fair  rose  to-morrow  fades  away. 

To-day  the  bloom  of  Spring,  Ninon,  to-morrow  frost ! 

What!  Thou  canst  starless  sail,  and  fear  not  to  be 

lost? 

Canst  travel  without  book?  In  silence  march  to 

strife  ? 

What!  thou  hast  not  known  love,  and  yet  canst  talk 

of  life? 

I  for  a  little  love  would  give  my  latest  breath ; 

And,  if  deprived  of  love,  would  gladly  welcome  death ! 

What  matter  if  the  day  be  at  its  dusk  or  dawn, 

If  from  another's  life  our  own  heart's  life  be  drawn? 

O  youthful  flowers,  unfold!  If  blown  o'er  Death's 

cold  stream, 

This  life  is  but  a  sleep,  of  which  love  is  the  dream ; 

And  when  the  winds  of  Fate  have  wafted  you  above, 

You  will  at  least  have  lived,  if  you  have  tasted  love ! 

(From  the  French 

of  Alfred  de  Musset.) 


THE    RED    TYROLEAN    EAGLE 

Eagle,  Tyrolean  eagle, 
Why  are  thy  plumes  so  red? 
"  In  part  because  I  rest 
On  Order's  lordly  crest; 
There  share  I  with  the  snow 
The  sunset's  crimson  glow/' 


Eagle,  Tyrolean  eagle, 
Why  are  thy  plumes  so  red? 
"  From  drinking  of  the  wine 
Of  Etschland's  peerless  vine; 
Its  juice  so  redly  shines, 
That  it  incarnadines." 


Eagle,  Tyrolean  eagle, 
Why  are  thy  plumes  so  red? 
"  My  plumage  hath  been  dyed 
In  blood  my  foes  supplied; 
Oft  on  my  breast  hath  lain 
That  deeply  purple  stain/' 


THE   RED   TYROLEAN   EAGLE         279 

Eagle,  Tyrolean  eagle, 
Why  are  thy  plumes  so  red? 
"  From  suns  that  fiercely  shine, 
From  draughts  of  ruddy  wine, 
From  blood  my  foes  have  shed, — 
From  these  am  I  so  red." 


(From  the  German) 
of  Senn. 


ANDREAS    HOFER 

In  Mantua  in  fetters 
The  faithful  Hofer  lay, 
Condemned  by  hostile  soldiers 
To  die  at  break  of  day; 
Now  bled  his  comrades'  hearts  in  vain; 
All  Germany  felt  shame  and  pain, 
As  did  his  land,  Tyrol. 

When  through  his  dungeon  grating 
In  Mantua's  fortress  grim 
He  saw  his  loyal  comrades 
Stretch  out  their  hands  to  him, 
He  cried :  "  God  give  to  you  his  aid, 
And  to  the  German  realm  betrayed, 
And  to  the  land  Tyrol !  " 

With  step  serene  and  steadfast, 
His  hands  behind  him  chained, 
Went  forth  the  valiant  Hofer 
To  death  which  he  disdained, — 
That  death,  which  by  his  valor  foiled 


ANDREAS    HOFER  281 

Had  oft  from  Iselberg  recoiled, 
In  his  loved  land,  Tyrol. 

The  noisy  drum-beat  slackened, 
And  silenced  was  its  roar 
When  Andreas  the  dauntless, 
Stepped  through  the  prison  door; 
The  "  Sandwirt ",  fettered  still,  yet  free, 
Stood  on  the  wall  with  unbent  knee, — 
The  hero  of  Tyrol. 

When  told  to  kneel,  he  answered: 
"  That  will  I  never  do ; 
I'll  die,  as  I  am  standing, 
Die,  as  I  fought  with  you ; 
Here  I  resist  your  last  advance, 
Long  live  my  well-loved  Kaiser  Franz, 
And  with  him  his  Tyrol !  " 

The  soldier  takes  the  kerchief 
Which  Hofer  will  not  wear; 
Once  more  the  hero  murmurs 
To  God  a  farewell  prayer; 
Then  cries :  "  Take  aim !    Hit  well  this  spot ! 
Now  fire !  .  .  .  How  badly  you  have  shot ! 
Adieu,  my  land  Tyrol  " ! 

(From  the  German.) 


STREAM   AND   SEA 

A  river  flowed  through  a  desert  land 
On  its  way  to  find  the  sea, 
And  saw  naught  else  than  glaring  sand 
And  scarcely  a  shady  tree. 

The  distant  stars  looked  down  by  night, 
And  the  burning  sun  by  day, 
On  the  crystal  stream,  so  pure  and  bright; 
But  the  sea  was  far  away. 

Sometimes  at  night  the  little  stream 
Would  sigh  for  the  sea's  embrace, 
And  oft  would  see,  as  in  a  dream, 
The  longed-for  ocean's  face. 

At  last  one  day  it  felt  a  thrill 

It  had  never  known  before, 

As  it  reached  the  brow  of  a  lofty  hill, 

And  saw  the  wave-lapped  shore. 

And  it  flung  itself  with  a  mighty  leap 
From  the  crest  of  the  hill  above, 
Till  its  waters  mingled  with  the  deep; — • 
And  the  name  of  the  sea  was  Love. 


EMILY'S  GRAVE 

Idly  one  day  in  a  foreign  town 

In  a  churchyard's  shade  I  sat  me  down 

By  the  side  of  a  little  cross  of  stone 

On  which  was  a  woman's  name  alone. 

A  cypress  whispered  in  my  ear 

That  all  was  now  neglected  here; 

"  Emily's  Grave  "  was  all  I  read ; 

Nothing  more  on  the  cross  was  said; 

Neither  a  name,  nor  Bible  verse, 

Nor  date  relieved  the  inscription  terse, — 

"  Emily's  Grave  ". 

So  strange  this  seemed,  my  blood  turned  cold 
At  thought  of  a  tragedy  never  told. 
The  flowers,  the  grass,  and  the  humming  bees 
Were  blithe  and  gay  in  the  sun  and  breeze, 
Yet  no  kind  hand  had  ever  strewn 
Sweet  flowers,  where  only  weeds  had  grown, 
And  nothing  brightened  the  lonely  mound 
Whose  edge  was  lost  in  the  trodden  ground. 
At  length  to  the  churchyard  gate  I  went, 
And  asked  of  a  woman  old  and  bent, 


284  EMILY'S   GRAVE 

"  Who  was  the  girl,  whose  cross  of  stone 
Bears  nothing  save  these  words  alone, — 

'  Emily's  Grave  '  ? 

"  Alas !  "  she  answered,  "  many  a  year 
Hath  passed  since  I  beheld  her  bier; 
She  was  young,  and  came  from  a  humble  nest, 
And  credulous  too,  like  all  the  rest; 
So  a  stranger  met  her  here  one  day 
And  caught  her  in  his  net  straightway. 
He  said  he  was  rich,  and  she  should  shine 
Like  a  queen  in  his  castle  by  the  Rhine, 
And,  winning  her  love,  he  took  her  hence 
To  where  she  found  it  was  all  pretence. 
He  had  basely  lied  to  the  simple  maid, 
And,  wearying  soon  of  a  girl  betrayed, 
Abandoned  her;  then  home  once  more 
She  came,  to  sink  at  her  mother's  door. 
Of  shame  and  grief  she  was  quickly  dead, 
For  here  she  could  no  more  lift  her  head; 
And  her  mother,  wishing  to  efface 
All  memory  of  her  child's  disgrace, 
Reared  that  small  cross,  to  which  she  gave 
The  title  only,—4  Emily's  Grave  '  ". 

(iFrom  the  German.) 


RACHEL 


RACHEL 

'Twas  sunset  in  Jerusalem;  the  light 

Still  lingered  on  the  city's  walls,  and  crowned 

Mount  Olivet  with  splendor,  while  below, 

Among  the  trees  of  dark  Gethsemane 

And  on  the  Kedron  gloomy  shadows  lay, 

As  if  but  waiting  for  the  death  of  day 

To  rise  and  mantle  Zion  in  a  shroud. 

To  one  who  watched  it  in  that  golden  light, 

Across  the  gulf  between  the  sunlit  hills, 

The  city  seemed  transfigured,  lifted  high 

Above  the  gloom  and  misery  of  earth, — 

A  fit  abode  for  Israel's  ancient  kings. 

The  broad  plateau,  where  Abraham  once  knelt 

And  where  the  Temple  of  the  Hebrew  faith 

Had  glittered  gorgeous  with  its  gems  and  gold, 

Now  bore,  'tis  true,  the  stately  Moslem  mosque, 

But  bore  it  as  a  captive  bears  his  chains, 

Whose  spirit  is  not  crushed,  but  borne  aloft 

By  thrilling  memories  of  a  noble  past. 

The  rays  of  dying  day  yet  half  illumed 

A  dreary  spot  outside  the  city  walls 

Where  sat,  apart,  an  old  man  and  his  child. 


288  RACHEL 

Beside  them  were  the  cherished  blocks  of  stone 
Which  once  had  graced  the  Temple's  sacred  court; 
It  was  the  "  Day  of  Wailing  ",  and  the  Jews, — 
A  poor  scant  remnant  of  their  outcast  race — , 
Had  gathered  there,  as  is  their  weekly  wont, 
To  read  of  all  the  glories  they  have  lost, 
And  count  their  endless  list  of  shattered  hopes. 
Some  moaned  at  thought  of  their  contrasted  lot, 
Some  plucked  their  beards  in  anguish  and  despair, 
Some  turned  their  tear-stained  faces  to  the  wall, 
And  mutely  kissed  the  precious  blocks,  as  if 
The  historic  stones  held  sentient  sympathy. 
Their  lamentations  ended,  all  had  gone 
To  their  poor  dwellings,  sadly,  one  by  one, 
Save  these  two  lingering  mourners,  who  still  sat 
With  downcast  eyes  and  slowly-dropping  tears. 
At  length  the  old  man  raised  his  head,  and  spoke ;- 

"  God  of  our  Fathers !  Thou,  whose  guiding  hand 
Led  us,  Thy  people,  to  this  chosen  land, 
Through  the  cleft  waters  of  a  distant  sea, 
That  we  might  rear  a  temple  here  to  Thee ; 
Thou,  who  on  Zion  hadst  Thy  favorite  shrine, 
And  in  Thy  majesty  and  power  divine 
Wast  daily  by  our  suppliant  race  adored 
As  sovereign  Jehovah,  peerless  Lord; 
Why  hast  Thou  cast  us  off  to  toil  and  die 
In  foreign  countries'  harsh  captivity? 


RACHEL  289 

Scattered  is  now  our  race  the  wide  world  o'er ; 
Our  wailings  rise  to  Thee  from  every  shore; 
Baited  or  banished  by  the  Christian  Powers, 
Cursed  by  the  Moslem  mid  our  ruined  towers, 
Like  pariah  dogs,  an  execrated  race, 
We  crouch  to-day  within  our  "  Wailing  Place  ", 
Begging,  and  paying  dearly  for,  the  right 
To  bathe  with  tears  this  consecrated  site. 
How  long,  O  Israel's  God,  shall  this  endure? 
Are  not  Thy  promises  to  Jacob  sure? 
Hasten  the  day  when  once  again  Thy  name 
Shall  here  be  worshipped,  and  the  sacred  flame 
Of  pure,  atoning  offerings  shall  rise, 
And  smoke  ascend  from  daily  sacrifice !  " 

Tears  choked  his  utterance,  and  the  old  man  wept, 

His  meagre  frame  convulsed  with  mighty  sobs, — 

Pathetic  tokens  of  a  broken  heart. 

His  daughter  crept  beside  him,  drew  his  head,— 

Adorned  with  thin,  white  hair — ,  upon  her  breast, 

And  soothed  him  as  a  mother  might  her  child ; 

Then,  when  his  grief  abated,  took  his  hands, — 

So  worn  and  white — ,  within  her  own  soft  palms, 

And  chafed  them  gently  with  a  loving  care ; 

Then  pressed  them  to  her  lips,  and  lightly  lay 

Her  warm   cheek   next  his   own,   while   murmuring 

words 
Of  love  and  tenderness  in  that  old  tongue 


290  RACHEL 

Which  once  had  rung  in  triumph  on  this  spot, 
When  in  its  words  the  poets  of  her  race 
Had  sung  their  glorious,  prophetic  strains. 

"  Father,"  she  whispered,  "  shall  we  now  despair, 
Now,  when  we  breathe  at  last  the  sacred  air 
Of  our  ancestral  glory,  and  have  come, 
After  long  years  of  waiting,  to  our  home? 
Didst  thou  not  say,  when  far  beyond  the  sea, 
In  our  dark  days  of  want  and  misery, 
That  thou  hadst  but  one  prayer, — to  go  to  die 
Upon  the  hill  where  Zion's  ruins  lie? 
Now  is  this  granted,  and  thou  hast  attained 
Thy  dearest  wish,  with  ample  wealth  retained 
To  keep  us  here  from  want,  till  on  the  breast 
Of  Olivet's  gray  slope  in  death  we  rest." 

She  paused,  and  faintly  smiled,  while  at  her  voice 
Her  father  turned  his  tear-dimmed  eyes  to  hers, 
As  one  who  hears  soft  music  with  delight. 
The  sunset  glow  fell  full  upon  her  face, — 
A  rich,  dark  oval,  crowned  with  raven  hair  ; 
Her  lustrous  eyes  were  shrines  of  tenderness, 
Large,  dark,  profound,  and  tremulously  bright, 
And  fringed  by  lashes  of  the  deepest  hue, 
Which  swept  the  downy  smoothness  of  her  cheek; 
While  her  full  lips,  inimitably  arched 
And  exquisitely  mobile,  told  her  thoughts, 


RACHEL  191 

Ere  their  soft  motion  framed  them  into  speech; 

Divinely  there  had  Beauty  set  her  seal; 

As  who  should  say, — "  Behold  a  perfect  type 

Of  southern  loveliness,  in  whose  warm  veins 

The  blood  of  good,  ancestral  stock  runs  pure, 

Maintained  through  centuries  of  Spanish  suns." 

The  old  man  fondly  took  her  hands  in  his, 

And,  bending  forward,  kissed  her  broad,  fair  brow; 

Then  in  a  faint  and  weary  voice  replied; — 

"  Rachel,  my  well-belov'd,  I  have  in  thee 

The  only  blessing  left  on  earth  to  me, 

The  one  sweet  solace  in  my  dreary  life 

Of  fourscore  years  of  racial  hate  and  strife; 

Dear  Comforter,  'tis  true,  our  feet  now  stand 

Within  the  limits  of  our  people's  land; 

Behind  us  are  the  obloquy  and  pain 

Endured  in  cruel,  persecuting  Spain, 

;Yet  feel  I  still  more  keenly  here  than  there 

The  degradation  which  our  people  share; 

Each  object  here  speaks  sadly  to  the  Jew 

Of  the  proud  grandeur  which  his  race  once  knew. 

But  let  that  pass;  there  is  another  pain 

:  Which  hurts  me  sorely,  Rachel,  and  in  vain 

I  seek  a  remedy;  it  is  that  thou 

Hast  now  new  lines  of  sorrow  on  thy  brow. 

'Tis  true,  thou  art  a  Jewess,  and  must  know 

The  shame  which  constitutes  thy  people's  woe; 


292  RACHEL 

But  I  detect  the  signs  of  some  new  grief 
For  which  the  lapse  of  time  brings  no  relief; 
Thy  cheek  hath  paled  since  our  arrival  here, 
And  often  on  its  pallor  gleams  a  tear." 

At  first  she  spoke  not ;  but  at  length  her  lips 
Moved,  quivering  as  in  pain,  while  o'er  her  face 
An  ashen  paleness  came,  which  whiter  seemed 
From  startling  contrast  with  her  ebon  hair; 

"  Father  ",  she  murmured,  "  speak  of  that  no  more ! 
I  shared  thy  coming  to  this  Syrian  shore, 
And  here  shall  die,  for  nothing  more  I  crave 
Than  on  these  lonely  hills  to  find  a  grave. 
My  life,  though  like  a  flower  deprived  of  light, 
Hath  yet  known  moments  so  divjnely  bright 
With  blissful  rapture,  that  I  then  forgave 
The  insults  we  endured,  and  still  could  brave 
Existence  in  Seville,  if  thou  wouldst  stay; 
But  in  thy  absence  how  could  I  betray 
My  dying  mother's  trust  and  farewell  prayer 
That  I  henceforth  thy  lonely  life  should  share  ?  " 

She  paused,  and  from  her  lips  a  stifled  moan 
Hinted  the  torture  that  her  soul  had  known. 
Her  father  noted  it,  and  with  a  sigh 
Of  self-reproach  attempted  a  reply; — 


RACHEL  293 

"  Dear  child,  thy  love  for  me  hath  cost  thee  much ; 

For  young  Emanuel, — shrink  not  from  my  touch! — 

Was  dear  to  thee ;  I  knew  it,  and  confess 

That  I,  to  consummate  thy  happiness, 

Had  given  thee  to  him  with  full  consent, 

(Who  with  Emanuel  would  not  be  content?) 

Had  not  my  vow  and  purpose  of  long  years 

Forced  me  to  leave  our  home  despite  thy  tears. 

I  knew  the  struggle,  Rachel,  in  thy  heart, 

I  felt  the  anguish  of  thy  soul  to  part 

From  one  for  whom  thy  love  was  so  intense ; 

In  truth,  for  weeks  I  suffered  in  suspense, 

Lest  thy  impetuous  temperament  might  lead 

Even  thee  to  leave  me,  in  my  hour  of  need, 

Infirm  with  years  to  sail  alone  from  Spain, 

Go  unattended  on  the  stormy  main, 

And  lay  my  poor,  worn  body  in  a  grave 

Unknown,  uncared  for,  by  a  foreign  wave. 

God  bless  thee,  Rachel,  that  thy  noble  soul 

Could  make  this  filial  choice,  and  thus  control 

A  love  which,  though  supreme,  could  not  efface 

Thy  duty,  as  a  daughter  of  thy  race; 

Thy  ancestors  were  princes  on  this  hill! 

Within  thy  veins  their  blood  runs  nobly  still !  " 

Rachel  sat  motionless,  with  outstretched  hands, 
And  fingers  interlocked ;  her  steadfast  eyes 
Had  hopeless  sorrow  in  their  stony  gaze, 


294 


RACHEL 


As  though  they  read  Fate's  sentence  of  despair. 

At  length  she  turned  her  face;  the  light  had  fled 

From  her  young  features,  just  as  in  the  west 

The  glow  had  faded  from  the  sky,  and  left 

A  wintry  coldness  in  the  unlit  clouds. 

She  seemed  about  to  speak,  when,  sweet  and  clear, 

Forth  from  the  shadow  of  the  ancient  wall 

Soft  vocal  music  stirred  the  evening  air, 

With  plaintive  passion  thrilled, — a  proof  that  love 

Inspired  the  words  that  floated  into  song; — 

Light  of  the  glorious,  setting  sun, 

Gilding  the  Syrian  shore, 
Ere  the  bright,  lingering  day  be  done, 
Guide  me  to  her  whose  heart,  well  won, 
Holds  me  forevermore. 

Moon,  that  hath  spanned  the  silvered  plain, 

Olivet's  brow  to  kiss, 
Lead  her  by  memory's  golden  chain 
Back  to  the  olive  groves  of  Spain; 

Back  to  our  days  of  bliss ! 

Star  of  the  evening's  darkening  sky, 

Gemming  the  lonely  hill, 
Whisper  to  her  that  I  am  nigh, 
Waiting  in  hope  for  her  reply; 

Tell  her  I  love  her  still! 


RACHEL  295 

The  song  had  ended ;  Rachel  stood  erect, 

Her  pale  lips  parted  breathlessly,  her  head 

Bent  forward  to  receive  the  words,  which  came 

Like  grateful  raindrops  to  a  drooping  flower; 

Her  slender  form  was  quivering  with  delight 

And  sudden  rush  of  feeling;  she  scarce  knew 

If  this  were  all  a  dream,  or  if  in  truth 

She  heard  Emanuel's  welcome  accents  there; 

Her  heart  for  that  brief  moment  wanted  naught 

To  supplement  its  rapture;  'twas  enough 

To  stand  thus  in  expectancy,  and  know 

The  idol  of  her  soul  was  drawing  near. 

At  length  her  father  touched  her  hand,  and  spoke; — 

'Tis  he,  my  Rachel ;  thy  sweet  power  hath  drawn 
Thy  lover  o'er  the  sea !    Again  the  dawn 
Of  love  and  hope  is  kindled  in  thy  face; 
The  concentrated  beauty  of  thy  race 
Glows  in  thy  features ;  now  alas !  I  know 
That  thy  self-sacrifice  hath  cost  thee  woe 
Intenser  than  I  thought;  I  too  rejoice 
To  hear  the  music  of  Emanuers  voice, 
Although  I  tremble  lest  his  purpose  be 
To  lure  thee,  Rachel,  far  away  from  me." 

His  daughter,  even  in  the  thrill  of  bliss 

Which  filled  her  throbbing  heart,  yet  saw  the  pain 


296  RACHEL 

That  marked  his  closing  words;  and,  turning,  twined 
Her  arms  about  the  old  man's  drooping  neck; 


"  Dear  Father,  fear  not  that,"  she  gently  said ; 
"  Though  it  be  true  that  ardent  love  hath  led 
Emanuel  to  this  distant  Syrian  shore, 
Still  shall  thy  lot  be  mine  forevermore; 
I  am  thy  faithful  child,  and  none  the  less 
Twill  be  thy  Rachel's  greatest  happiness 
At  thy  dear  side  to  minister  to  thee; 
For  only  death  can  come  'twixt  thee  and  me ! " 

She  paused,  and  hid  her  face  upon  his  breast; 

Her  father  clasped  her  fondly  in  his  arms, 

And  bent  his  cheek  to  hers,  his  whitened  locks 

On  her  dark  tresses  glistening  like  the  snow. 

'Twas  thus  Emanuel  found  them;  silently 

He  stood  before  them  in  a  dread  suspense; 

His  very  soul  seemed  poised  upon  the  word 

Which  left  at  last  his  trembling  lips,— "  Rachel !" 

She  raised  her  head,  and  their  bright,  ardent  eyes 

Met  in  a  long,  intoxicating  gaze; 

A  joy  ineffable  diffused  its  flush 

O'er  both  their  faces;  yet  she  did  not  speak, 

But  only  clung  the  closer  to  her  sire, 

As  if  in  fear  to  lose  her  self-control. 


RACHEL  297 

At  length  Emanuel  spoke  in  tones  so  charged 
With  deep  emotion  that  the  very  air 
Seemed     tremulous      with     thoughts      transcending 
speech ; — 

"  Rachel,  my  more  than  life !     Canst  thou  forgive 

The  momentary  thought  that  I  could  live 

Without  thee?    See,  our  separation  ends! 

Henceforth  I  know  no  country,  home  or  friends 

Save  thine,  my  love!     I  gladly  leave  them  all, 

Obedient  to  a  higher,  nobler  call, — 

The  cry  of  my  whole  being  to  be  near 

One  who  to  me  is  so  supremely  dear, 

That  life  without  her  is  but  lingering  death! 

With  thee  already  a  diviner  breath 

Of  inspiration  lifts  my  soul  to  gain 

The  purest,  loftiest  heights  I  can  attain! 

Not  to  entice  thee  from  thy  father's  care, 

But  rather  come  I  to  entreat  a  share 

In  that  dear  filial  duty,  and  to  give 

Love,  loyalty  and  homage,  while  I  live, 

To  the  acknowledged  hero  of  our  race, 

Beside  whose  form  I  also  crave  a  place; 

Not  only  do  I  plead  my  love  anew, 

But  also  thus  lay  open  to  thy  view 

The  dearest  wishes  of  my  soul,  and  wait 

To  learn  thy  answer.    Do  I  come  too  late  ?  " 


298  RACHEL 

In  doubt,  'twixt  hope  and  fear,  she  raised  her  eyes 
To  read  her  fate  in  her  lov'd  father's  face; 
Who,  taking  her  fair  hands  within  his  own, 
Slowly  advanced  to  where  Emanuel  stood, 
And  laid  them  in  her  lover's  eager  grasp. 
With  softened  radiance,  from  their  lonely  paths, 
The  far-off  stars  beheld  their  kneeling  forms, 
While,  with  his  hands  in  benediction  raised, 
The  old  man  stood  absorbed  in  silent  prayer. 


The  old,  old  story,  ever  new 

Alike  in  Gentile  and  in  Jew; 

And  Love  remains  man's  sovereign  yet 

In  Eden  and  on  Olivet. 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


50m-6,'67(H2523s8)2373 


PS2934.S5P6  1910 


3  2106  00208   1112 


